


Better Days

by WolfenM



Series: Finding Reason [3]
Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Beryl Patmore is a Bit of a Homophobe and a Busybody but She'll Come Around, British Comedy, Character Study, Confessions, Edwardian Period, Elsie Hughes is a Good Surrogate Mother, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Encouragement, Eventual Romance, Families of Choice, Gen, Happy Ending, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, M/M, Misunderstandings, Overcoming Homophobia, Period-Typical Homophobia, Post-Series, Redemption, Referenced Suicide Attempt, Reunions, Second Chances, Slice of Life, Thomas Barrow is Good With Children, War Stories, change of heart, coming into one's own, compassion - Freeform, settling in
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-05
Updated: 2018-09-26
Packaged: 2019-02-10 18:46:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 29,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12917982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WolfenM/pseuds/WolfenM
Summary: Stories of Thomas Barrow's future as butler at Downton ....





	1. Running Like Clockwork

**Author's Note:**

> DISCLAIMER: Thomas Barrow, Charles Carson, Elsie Hughes, Robert Crawley / Lord/Earl of Grantham, John Bates, Anna Bates (nee Smith), John Bates Jr, Beryl Patmore, Tom Branson, Sybil Branson (nee Crawley) Edith Pelham (nee Crawley) / the Marchioness of Hexham, Cora Crawley / Lady Grantham, Mary Crawley, George Crawley, Henry Talbot, Sybbie Branson, Daisy Mason (nee Robinson), Andy Parker, and Jimmy Kent © Julian Fellowes / ITV / PBS. This is just fanfiction, not an official story for the series, and no profit is being made by the author.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Thomas's first days as butler, and he's doing his best to be helpful, be a new man and earn everyone's respect and affection, but Mrs Patmore has her reservations.

"The schedule is largely the same as it was when you took over for my honeymoon," Carson was telling Thomas as they walked into their now-shared office. "The biggest difference is that you should allot time every day to book-keeping -- I know you've done some of that, so I don't expect this will be a challenge. I typically do this after breakfast, in the lull before the storm. Don't rush it, but if you _do_ find yourself finished before luncheon -- and I usually do -- I find that to be a good time to visit the nursery." 

Thomas was surprised by that. "You visit nearly _every day_? And Nanny doesn't mind?" 

"On the contrary, she appreciates the chance to leave to get anything she might need, and to take a little break. Besides which, the nursery _is_ part of the House -- it needs looking after as much as anything else." 

"Yes, sir," Thomas nodded, biting back a smile. Carson wasn't fooling anyone, but Thomas wasn't about to call him on it, intending to take full advantage himself of the excuse to see the children. In fact .... "Mightn't I do the book-keeping in the nursery in the first place? Surely Lady Mary would think the more eyes on the children, the better?" 

Carson blinked, then seemed to mull the idea over. "I suppose if Nanny is all right with it -- and provided the work isn't neglected and the accuracy doesn't suffer -- that would be as good as doing it down here." He nodded magnanimously. 

Thomas suspected the man wished he'd thought of it himself. 

~* * *~ 

"It's ... _that_ corner," Lady Grantham declared, pointing and then leading the way through the storage portion of the attic. 

Apparently she had been reading old diaries of previous Lords and Ladies of Downton, looking for material for the next open house, and discovered a mention of a few items of interest said to have been packed away in the attic. She'd brought Thomas up with her to help her look things over, and to note to him what items she wanted the staff to bring down. They had to pick their way through a dusty jungle of trunks, crates, and dropcloths to get there, Thomas and Her Ladyship stifling many a sneeze along the way. Thomas had to move more than a few heavy obstructions, too, wishing he'd thought to drag a hall boy up with them. 

"Well, it's no wonder these things have been left here all this while, what with so many things having been put in front of them!" Her Ladyship laughed when they finally reached the corner in question. "I bet _this_ is the painting I want brought down." She tugged on a dropcloth, revealing a portrait of a stunning woman. "Yes, that's the one! In 1824, the first wife of the earl at the time died; he remarried two years later, and _that_ wife did away with everything that reminded her of his former wife, who was thought considerably more beautiful ...." 

Thomas had to agree -- he might not be physically attracted to her, but he still appreciated beauty anywhere it could be found. Still, he supposed it could just be that the painter made her look so. 

He stepped forward for a better look, and his foot got tangled in another cloth. As he freed himself, it slipped off of the item it was hiding: the most handsome grandfather clock he'd ever seen. Even though the glass was cracked and the wood scratched, its beauty still made his breath catch in his throat, even more than the portrait. 

"Oh! There's mention of that, too!" Her Ladyship revealed, catching sight of the clock herself. "It was a gift from Princess Charlotte in 1816, but the son of a visiting duke knocked it over and broke it in 1827. The duke sent them another clock in apology, so they put that up instead of repairing this one, but the earl insisted they couldn't just throw away a royal gift, so they put this one up here." She peered at it."My! It's quite lovely, isn't it? Better than the one we have now! Maybe I should look into getting it fixed ...." 

Though his heart leapt at the possibility, Thomas smothered his enthusiasm, not wishing to get up his hopes of seeing such an exquisite device every day. He knew all too well how fleeting aristo fancies could be. 

Then he got an idea. 

He put the thought aside when Her Ladyship started looking over other items, including various bits of furniture and boxes of linen, china, and silver she toyed with the idea of putting back into use. 

He wondered to himself what Mrs Patmore and Mrs Hughes would think about that. 

~* * *~ 

"I'll wash; you dry, Daisy." 

Beryl nearly dropped a glass at Mr Barrow's offer. 

Then she saw something that, impossibly, shocked her even more: thin pink lines tracing the veins on the inside of his wrists, made visible as he rolled up his sleeves. 

How old were those scars? They looked healed, so not terribly new, but the fact that they were pink rather than pale suggested that they were only a few months old. She remembered him falling suddenly ill a few months before he'd left, and how some of the others had acted strangely that same evening -- Baxter had even been running through the halls like a loon! And though he'd supposedly had influenza, no one else got sick. She'd even wondered at the time how he'd gotten it. And then there was how he'd become a changed man after -- more reserved, and markedly nicer. 

Now, she understood _why_. 

She'd always thought him a bit of a dark horse, but she'd never have thought him capable of _suicide_. Hadn't he thought too highly of himself to end his existence? Well, maybe she hadn't known him as well as she'd thought. Indeed, she certainly _didn't_ know the man standing before her now, all smiles and laughter -- the _kind_ sort of laughter, not the cruel, waspish variety she had come to know him by. 

"Mr Barrow, is it all right if I leave now?" Andy came in asking. "Mr Mason expects the piglets to arrive any hour now." 

"Off with you, then. Daisy, why don't you go, too -- don't want you walking home alone in the dark," Barrow insisted. 

"Oh, I can't -- I've got the bread to do!" Daisy protested. 

"I can manage this once, Daisy," Beryl assured her. 

"And I can help," Barrow suggested. 

"That's kind of you," Beryl replied with more enthusiasm than she actually felt. She wasn't thrilled with the idea of more time with Barrow, but she decided it was better than staying up extra late, since he'd sent her helpmate home early. 

"So, what's your recipe?" he asked after stowing the last plate. 

She demonstrated what to do, and he proved a quick study. "Have you made bread before?" she asked, also wondering what he was humming as he worked. 

"It's been quite a while, but yeah -- my sister taught me, and her recipe doesn't seem too different from yours." 

"Well, you should be careful not to spoil us, Mr Barrow! We might recruit you for the kitchen more often!" 

"Feel free -- with a smaller staff, I think we _have_ to pull together," he told her. "And really, if I know how to do something, why _shouldn't_ I do it?" 

She chuckled. "Don't be surprised if I take you at your word!" 

A cloud seemed to come over him at that, and he paused. "I wish you _would_ , Mrs Patmore. I know I've never been your favourite person -- with good reason -- but I'd like to change that, if I can. If it's not to late." He gave her a brave smile and went back to kneading. "I'm just not sure _how_ to _do_ it." 

Moved, she laid a hand over his. "You're off to a good start, Mr Barrow. It's _not_ too late, not at all. Just ... be _patient_ with an old woman." She patted his hand and went back to her work. 

" _What_ old woman would that be?" he asked with an innocent air and a twinkle in his eye. "I don't see any!" 

"You cheeky monkey!" she mocked chided, tossing a pinch of flour at him, earning a hearty laugh from him. 

Any worries she had about him taking over as butler evaporated -- for the moment, anyway -- with the sunny sound. Then he began humming again -- then began to sing. 

"Lavender's green, dilly dilly, lavender's blue  
If you love me, dilly dilly, I will love you ...." 

~* * *~ 

Thomas was only momentarily startled by the sensation of teeth around his hand."Oh, hello, Tiaa!" he laughed, rubbing the labrador pup's head. She stood on two legs and wrapped her paws around him, tongue lolling. He hugged her back, scratching her head and backside. "That's a good doggie! Hello! Hello!" 

She put her teeth gently around his hand, letting out a playful mutter, then dropped to all fours, lowering into a play bow, and yipped. He scratched her raised hind-quarters, and she dropped to the floor, baring her belly, making a trilling sort of growl. He knelt beside her, rubbing her belly with one hand while holding the other over her head and waggling his fingers to get her attention. She stretched out and mouthed the hand, pretending to be vicious but barely touching him. 

"You know, I had a dog once. She was mouthy too. Dad always used to yell at her for it, but I know you don't mean any harm. You just want to play, don't you, girl?" 

She let go and batted at his arms with her paws, smiling her doggy smile, muttering and trilling. 

"My, you're talkative today! What do you want? Do you want a tummy tickle?" 

He did just that, with her pushing at him with her hind legs even as she wrapped her forepaws around his arm, stretched up her head, and put her mouth around his hand again. This went on for at least a minute, Thomas laughing as he played with the pup, and Tiaa making happy sounds as she gently chewed on him. 

"So there you are, Tiaa!" came Lord Grantham's voice from across the room. 

Face blazing, Thomas stood to attention. "I-I'm sorry, Your Lordship; it won't happen again!" 

"Nonsense!" Grantham replied, approaching. "In fact, consider this a standing order: if you're not in the middle of something, and Tiaa wants to play, then I expect whoever is nearby to play with her. We are going to spoil this dog rotten! Aren't we?" he said that last to the dog, giving her a vigorous petting. 

Thomas grinned. "As you command, Your Lordship." 

~* * *~ 

"And where would you be going with that table cloth?" Elsie asked, puzzled upon spotting Mr Barrow coming out of the linen closet. 

He stopped short and slowly turned to face her, biting his lip and looking like he expected to be smacked. "The kids wanted to play dinner party, and so I thought I'd put this on the picnic table?" He seemed to be asking permission. 

" _Not. That. One._ In fact, I'd say use an old _bedsheet_ instead -- I'll help you find something appropriate ...." 

"Oh! Good idea!" he agreed brightly. "Just let me tell Mrs Patmore what's going on!" 

Bemused, she followed him into the kitchen. 

"Mrs Patmore, how are you this lovely day?" he began. 

The woman sighed and turned. "What are you trying to butter me up for?" The way she said it was with an air of defeat, like it was already a given that she'd do as he asked. 

"The children were saying yesterday that they wished to know what a dinner party was like, and I got to thinking just now, what if I show them, and start teaching them how to behave during a dinner?" And he went on to detail how their typical lunch items might double as "courses", asking her to plate them on adult dinnerware. "I'll wash everything after myself -- outside, in a basin, so I'm not in your way in here," he added. 

Beryl sighed again, and Elsie realised it was done with fondness. "All right, I suppose I can manage all that!" 

He clapped his hands together, beaming. "Brilliant! Thank you, Mrs Patmore." He then kissed her cheek before hurrying out. 

Beryl looked a little dumbstruck, touching her cheek. "I don't think I will ever get used to the new, improved Mr Barrow." 

"Are you complaining?" Elsie teased. 

"Not, exactly, but this one's harder to say no to. And by harder, I mean impossible. That's going to mean a lot of extra work for me." 

"Well, you have to make and plate lunch one way or another. If he's helping with the dishes, it all evens out in the end, doesn't it? " 

"Hm. I suppose it does, at that!" She smiled. 

Barrow hurried back in just then. "Where did you say the sheet I could use is, Mrs Hughes?" 

"Oh! Right, I'll get it," she promised, following him out, caught up in his enthusiasm. 

She allowed herself a few minutes to watch the luncheon itself, with Barrow explaining everything to the children -- an adorable affair. 

Beryl had come out as well. "Huh. He would have made a good father," she remarked quietly. "Too bad." 

"Well, all the better for _these_ children he _won't_ become one," she replied, a little annoyed with her friend and the woman's general prejudice regarding Barrow's inclinations -- a factor she suspected played a part in the loneliness that nearly ended the man's life! She couldn't say as much to Beryl, since the suicide was Mr Barrow's business and not common knowledge, but sometimes she felt like revealing that her brother liked "the same shade of purple as Mr Barrow", just to see the look on the woman's face .... 

"Just like Lady Mary was lucky to have Carson, and Daisy was lucky to have you," she said instead. "There are other kinds of family besides blood. I rather think we all downstairs have become something of a family after all these years." 

She just hoped Beryl at least had stopped thinking of Barrow as the black sheep. Surely the fond look in the kitchen suggested as much? 

"I suppose," Beryl agreed amiably, smiling thoughtfully. Then the smile fell, and she looked worried. "Still ... is it really a good idea to encourage Master George to spend time with him?" she asked lowly. 

Hughes had an idea where Beryl's train of thought was going, but decided to give her friend the benefit of the doubt rather than strangling her outright. "How do you mean?" 

" _You_ know ... is a little boy _safe_ with a man like that?" Beryl whispered. 

Elsie decided she would earn her sainthood that day. "If a man who loves women is still safe to have around little girls, then _yes_ , a man who loves men is still safe to have around little boys. Further, one stolen kiss -- thanks to a miscommunication, no less -- in _fifteen years_ does not a _molester_ make. If Mr Kent could forgive what happened, and even become the _best of friends_ with Barrow, I think _we_ can certainly give Barrow the benefit of the doubt." 

Charlie came up beside her, effectively silencing any response Beryl might have had. "What's all this, then?" He asked, waving at Barrow and the wee bairns. 

"The children asked what a dinner party is like, so Mr Barrow is showing them." 

Charlie smiled fondly. "I remember similar happy afternoons with the Crawley girls! It's nice to see _some_ traditions are still hanging on." 

She didn't bother pointing out that the current Crawley children and Mr Barrow had come up with the idea on their own, so it wasn't tradition so much as history simply repeating itself. Let them bond over this, even if Charlie hadn't actually had anything to do with it -- at least _Charlie_ seemed to have mellowed towards the man .... 

~* * *~ 

Beryl had gotten used to Barrow helping with the clean-up in the evenings, enough that she grew puzzled -- and, well, _suspicious_ \-- when he asked Andy to do it instead, saying he had something to take care of upstairs. While most of the staff lived off-property now, they did have one 16-year-old hall boy who had recently moved _in_. And now there was no Mr Carson to keep an eye on things .... 

"Oh, dear! I've forgotten to ask Mr Barrow about something for tomorrow!" she said a short while after Barrow went up. It was half true -- she'd refrained from from asking so she'd have an excuse to be up there. 

"I can go up and ask him for you," Andy offered. 

"No, no, it's ... _involved_ , so I'd best do it. But you can escort me, so's I don't get in trouble for being in the men's section!" And also so he could give Barrow a thorough trouncing, if necessary .... 

Upstairs, as they reached his door, she could hear Barrow saying, "That's it, baby -- just open up a bit wider for me; I promise this won't hurt ...." Picturing the worst, she steeled herself and opened the door, despite Andy's protest that she should knock first. 

Barrow yelped and jumped away -- from the backside of a _clock_. "Bloody hell, you scared the life out of me! Good thing I just finished, or you could have ruined it! Wait, _did_ you ruin it?" He turned his panicked attention back to the clock, studying the gears inside intently. He sighed in relief. "It _looks_ all right. Now for the test!" Closing the cabinet back, he started to turn it, then paused, looking back at them, concerned. "Unless there's an emergency? Has something happened? Is that why you're up here?" 

"No, no," she assured him, feeling foolish -- and guilty for assuming the worst. "It's just, you left so quickly, I forgot to ask you about tomorrow." 

"Oh! Quite right, sorry! Guess I got carried away." He gazed longingly at the device, caressing the wood in such a way that half made her feel like she should avert her eyes. 

"Well, don't let me stop you," she insisted. "Go on with your test!" 

He grinned like a child; she wondered if she would ever get used to seeing that expression on him. He turned the clock to face them, opened the glass door, and used a key on three knobs in the clock face. Using his own watch, he set the time, took a deep breath, and got the pendulum going. Ear practically to the glass, he listened intently. 

Suddenly he beamed, crying "I did it! It _works_!" Just as suddenly, he grew bashful. "Well, it's _ticking_ , anyway. A-and the second hand is moving. The real test will come _tomorrow_ , though, when I see if it's _still_ telling the right time." 

"Did one of the children break it?" she asked. Maybe he was trying to keep them -- and Nanny -- from getting into trouble? 

"Oh, no, no! Her Ladyship and I found this beauty in the attic, and I just couldn't bear the thought of her sitting up there forever." He fondly brushed non-existent dust off of it; clearly he had already cleaned it well. "I replaced the door and sanded the scratches and re-stained her. Thought it might make a nice surprise for Lord and Lady Grantham's anniversary on Friday." 

"But ... how did you know how to fix it?" Andy asked her question for her. 

"Did I never tell you? My father was a clockmaker! I was even his apprentice for a while." There was a hint of sorrow in his eyes then. She wondered what happened .... 

"Oh! _That's_ why you were always asking if I needed help with the clocks!" Andy realised. 

Beryl suspected that he'd thought Barrow was flirting -- _she_ certainly would have. But the more time she spent with the new butler, the more she came to think she never really knew him at all .... 

~* * *~ 

Thomas felt his heart pounding as he opened the dining-room door for the family. Could _they_ hear the rapid beat as well as _he_ could? He almost couldn't hear the surprised gasp from Lady Grantham over the sound! 

"Mr Barrow, is that ...?" she asked, eyes wide and smile delighted. 

"The clock from the attic? It is indeed, milady," Thomas replied as smoothly as he could, trying to smother his pride (when had it ever given him anything but trouble?) and just be glad to have brought her joy. 

He looked to Lord Grantham next -- and suddenly found himself anxious in a way that harkened back to his adolescence, when he awaited his father's reaction to his work on a clock, desperate for the man's approval. The memory made him suddenly sick to his stomach, his palms sweating in his gloves. 

"Her Ladyship mentioned finding it -- you had it fixed?" His Lordship asked, walking towards the antique, face thus turned away from Thomas and therefore unreadable. 

"Yes, sir -- for your anniversary." 

"Well, that was kind of you! Thank you, Barrow! It's much more handsome than the one we'd been using, I must say!" His Lordship remarked. 

Just like that, Barrow felt his anxiety melt away. Here was the approval his father could never seem to give him, easily granted by a man of greater importance than his father -- a man who didn't even have the reason of a familial bond to prompt it! 

"It looks like _new!_ " Her Ladyship marvelled. 

"Indeed -- I can scarcely believe it's the same clock!" the dowager weighed in. "I'd left it in the attic because it had seemed like a lost cause! Oh, you must tell me who did the repairs, Barrow; I have a clock that needs mending!" 

"Er, well ... it was _me_ , milady," he confessed, feeling strangely embarrassed. "But I'd be happy to look at your clock for you!" he quickly added. 

" _You_ fixed it?" the Granthams both asked, sounding astonished and maybe even pleased, rather than skeptical. 

"My father was a clockmaker," Thomas replied, that strange embarrassment still present even as he succumbed to a flush of pride. He felt the colour rise in his cheeks, and struggled to calm himself, to restore his usual blasé demeanor. It was shockingly difficult. 

"Well, in that case, I'd like for _you_ to take charge of looking after the clocks in the house, Barrow, rather than have anyone _else_ do it," Lord Grantham decided. 

"I'd be happy to, Your Lordship," Thomas replied, barely able to contain his joy -- he'd wanted to do it himself anyway, but generally speaking, that was part of a footman's work, and thus considered beneath him. But then, so was washing dishes or a hundred other small tasks he'd surreptitiously been doing belowstairs, in an effort to be nicer and help out the dwindling staff. Manning the clocks, though, while being something he really _wanted_ to do, he could never seem to justify, seeing as it was time-consuming and meant he wasn't in one central location where he would be quickly and easily found if there was an issue. Maybe that fact hadn't occurred to His Lordship; Thomas wasn't about to point it out. Who would have guessed that doing something nice for his employers would have such a happy result for himself, as well! 

For that matter, who knew he would come to have such affection for the Granthams themselves? Suddenly, he understood Carson a little better. Except, unlike Carson (or at least it seemed so), Thomas had also come to be fond of his _coworkers_ , too. 

He just wished it hadn't taken him so _long_ to gain this family to replace the one he'd lost. 


	2. War Stories

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the arrival of a special visitor, people learn what Thomas went through during the Great War.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't promise it's accurate, but I did my best to research war conditions for the British Medical Corps during WWI.

Mary went downstairs to discuss a trip with Anna, bringing George to visit Barrow; Tom and Sybbie tagged along, Tom bringing John Jr. At the servants' table, they also found Bateses, Andy, Mrs Hughes, Mrs Patmore, and Daisy, everyone working on this or that and keeping one another company. Barrow moved from his place at the head, to a vacated seat in the middle of the table, just after Baxter, likely so he could sit across from George; Mary held her son while she talked to Anna, to her left. Bates, to Anna's left, kept his son occupied, with the help of Mrs Hughes, across from him, and Miss Baxter, to the left of Hughes and right of Barrow. To Mary's right was Patmore, then Daisy, the pair discussing meal plans. Sybbie sat on Barrow's left, her father after her, and Andy next to him, the three men chatting amicably about the upcomimg cricket season. 

"Sir?" came a query from the door a few minutes later. 

Mary saw a hall boy peek around the doorway molding. "It's all right -- Bradley, is it? You can come in!" she beckoned. Bradely looked like he'd rather walk into a lion's den. Heavens, was she _that_ scary? 

Barrow turned to greet the youth. "Are you hungry, lad? Come sit, and we'll find you something!" Barrow began to stand, gesturing to his own chair. 

"No, sir, but thank you! It's just, this man was at the back door ...." 

Bradley then hurried back to work, a familiar golden head appearing in his place. 

"Jimmy!" 

Suddenly beaming with bright laughter, Barrow waved the fellow into the room, hugging him fiercely. Mary was pleased to see the younger man return the embrace with the same enthusiasm, the joy on his face mirroring Barrow's. 

Mary reflected a moment on how relationships could change, enemies becoming friends. She and Edith had been at each other's throats most of their lives, but had recently found something of a peace, if not exactly friendship; was there any chance they might grow as close as Barrow and Jimmy had? Or Barrow and Bates, for that matter? Anna had told her that Bates had suggested Barrow be little John Junior's godfather, and that Barrow supped with then every other Friday; Mary wouldn't have believed it possible a year ago .... 

"Not that I mind in the slightest, but what brings you here?" Barrow asked when he finally let his friend breathe. 

Mary bit back a smile, determined not to let the cat out of the bag. 

"Mr Branson asked me to come," Jimmy revealed, clearly not knowing much more about why he was there than Barrow did. 

"Oh, but that can wait," Branson hedged. "Sit and visit for a while!" 

"But ... H-His Lordship ...?" Jimmy fretted, turning his hat in his hands. 

"Has gone a-visiting Rose, with Mama," Mary assured him. "They'll be gone a fortnight." 

"And Carson?" Jimmy asked with a wince, wise enough to know that Carson wouldn't hesitate to toss Jimmy out on his ear, regardless of Branson's invitation. Of course, Carson might be more amenable if he knew Branson had Mary's blessing, but Jimmy wouldn't know about that -- just like he apparently didn't know about Carson's current status .... 

"Mr Carson has retired," Barrow hurriedly put his friend at ease. " _I'm_ butler now." There was no pride behind it, just a statement of fact -- and perhaps even a touch of embarrassment. 

"Oh! Congratulations, Mr Barrow!" Jimmy replied with a hearty handclasp. 

Fair-skinned as Barrow was, the blush was easy to see. 

"Well, come on, sit down," Barrow invited, retaking his own mid-table seat. Tom drew Sybbie into his lap, freeing her seat beside Barrow up for Jimmy. 

"Feels like rain, do you think?" Barrow asked, looking at the hall's ceiling as if he could see the sky through it, rubbing his gloved palm. 

"My leg certainly agrees," Bates replied, his son now sound asleep in his arms. 

"Why do you wear that glove, Mr Barrow?" George asked. 

"He was hurt fighting for King and Country," Mary told her son when Barrow failed to reply, the man looking uncomfortable. 

"Well, hurt during the war, yes. I didn't do any fighting, though -- I was in the medical corps," Barrow explained with -- strangely -- the air of a confession. "Never hurt anyone myself, unless you count those I sewed up -- or those I didn't manage to save," he added ruefully. 

"I'm sure no one would," Baxter tried to assure him, laying a hand on his shoulder. "And I'm glad you didn't end up having to ... well, to end a life." 

"Oh, so am I, believe me -- I'm truly sorry for those who _did_ have to do that. I often think it wasn't fair that I was never expected to do so myself, but I certainly wouldn't trade ...." 

"How did you get _hurt_ , though?" George persisted. 

"George, don't be nosey," Mary admonished. 

She would swear Barrow turned green-skinned then. "I would tell you, Master George, but I don't think you would like me very much when the story was done." 

"I'm sure that's not true," Baxter protested. 

"... Do you know what a blighty is, Miss Baxter?" 

He had the room's full attention. 

"No ...." 

"It's what they call an injury when you get it purposely so you can get away from the front line. And as you can probably imagine, the story of how I got it isn't a pretty one, so ... anyone with a weak stomach or a faint heart might want to leave the room." 

Everyone was quiet a long moment; no one left (though part of Mary thought she ought to, for her son's sake -- was he too young for such a story?). 

"War is a horror," Tom said finally. "The least that those of us who have been spared it can do is listen to what those who _have_ been through it have to share about it." 

"Hear, hear, Mr Branson," Mrs Hughes agreed. 

Mary nodded, and the others followed suit. Clearly Tom thought the lesson was important enough to let Sybbie stay; Mary could do no less for George -- or Barrow. 

Hand shaking a little, Barrow lit a cigarette. "I joined the medical corp in the first place in the hopes of making it through the war alive," he began. "Figured I'd spend most of the time in the hospital, not the field. Nothing was further from the truth." He chuckled, shaking his head. "I thought I was going into the safest job, but it turned out I chose a role with a much higher casualty rate than the regular infantry. Nearly everyone else in my unit who started with me was wounded or dead by the time I left -- as were quite a few who started after. We weren't allowed to fight, after all, save for self-defence, so many of us -- myself included -- ran about unarmed, sometimes even through wide-open spaces, snipers gunning for us. 

"There were other ways the medical corps was a bit different than the regular army, too. The infantry actually spent more time _away_ from the front line than at it, but we stretcher-bearers were the _opposite_. There were fewer of us, after all, and all we did was patch people up in the trenches or carry them out -- alive or dead, usually the latter. Thus, we weren't rotated out from the front line nearly as often as the infantry, who also did things like care for weapons, repair trenches, and move supplies. 

"For two years, I was stationed at the front. Never got used to the sounds -- the gunfire, the grenades, the bombs, the _screams_. It was a never-ending nightmare. Between the nearby latrines and corpses, the stench constantly burned your nose and turned your stomach. If you weren't being pestered by flies or itching with lice, you were nibbled on by rats, or your socks were getting embedded in your skin, or your own clothes burned you with gas residue. Who knew what would happen to you while you slept -- a gas attack, a bombing ... even just someone stealing your cigarettes, or stealing the rations you'd tucked away because you were too sickened by some recent gruesome image to eat it when you'd first received it. You could never get warm enough or dry enough, and you could never be sure if the mud caking your boots -- or even your uniform, if you slipped (and everyone did) -- was caused by rain or blood. 

"When you got to the hospital, every third man you saw was coughing up a lung from the flu, or making a mess in his pants because of dysentery, or vomiting from any of a myriad of reasons. Every _tenth_ man was missing a limb or an eye, or had his face half melted, or had his very insides showing. And every horrid sight -- in the hospital, or in the field, where people were ripped apart by bullets or bombs right in front of you -- would get burned into your brain forever, an after-image that never completely faded." Barrow's voice was shaking by then; he took a deep breath like it was a steadying drink. 

Mary suspected these memories, the way they rushed out faster and more forcefully the more he spoke, had been mostly locked away in Barrow's mind for years, unshared with anyone (save maybe O'Brien). In that light, while beyond horrified by the story, Mary was especially pleased to see the empathy on Bates' and Jimmy's faces. (Granted, Bates would likely have empathised even if he still hated Barrow ....) 

"So one day," Barrow went on, "me and this one bloke, Harry, we're carrying this stretcher, and he's talking about how he'd joined the medical corps because, like me, he'd thought it would keep him safe -- but he'd come to realise there was no escape if a bullet had your name on it. And the very next moment, as if to prove his point, he was shot in the head. I decided then and there, that was it. I had to get out, or I was a goner -- and that didn't seem right to me, dying just because some blokes I didn't even know decided people _they_ didn't know should kill each other. I saw Matthew Crawley a short while later." 

Despite the horrors of Barrow's story, and her heartbreak for him, Mary's heart skipped at that. Here was a moment about this man she'd loved that she hadn't known about! 

"I asked him if there was any chance of transferring to the hospital back home," Barrow continued. "He said he didn't think so, short of injury. So I went out, and raised my hand with my lighter lit, and someone spotted the light and obliged me. I'd never felt anything like the pain of that bullet, but I thanked God and that marksman for my deliverance." 

Barrow pulled the glove off, revealing how mangled his hand was. There were a few stifled gasps around the table; Mary thought she even spotted a hint of a tear in Jimmy's eye. George, though, obviously not grasping the story, instead grabbed onto the gruesome reality before him, pawing at the injury with his small fingers and staring at it with wide, intent eyes. 

"George, don't manhandle Mr Barrow like that," Mary admonished weakly, reeling a little from both the story and the sight. It was a wonder Barrow could still carry! 

"Good Mr Bates here is the _true_ war hero, Master George -- _he_ was hurt _saving your grandfather_ ," Barrow told the child. 

"Seems to me you must have saved quite a few lives yourself, Mr Barrow," Bates pointed out. 

Barrow clearly had never considered that point before, looking gobsmacked. He didn't seem able to accept it after considering it a moment, though, shaking his head as he replied, "That's assuming any of them actually _survived_." 

Reaching, Baxter took his mangled hand in hers, then, unflinching, and squeezed it. "I'm _sure_ someone did." He squeezed back with a wan smile. 

"Baxter's right -- after two years at the front, there was bound to be at least one or two that did," Bates assured Barrow. Then he sighed, leaning back. "I must say, warfare changed a lot since I'd been in it -- worse weapons, worse conditions, more brutal tactics. I don't think anyone really understood that while it was going on. War is never pretty, but _that_ one ... I'd take _ten_ years of the Boer War over _one_ of the Great War, Mr Barrow." 

" _No one_ should have had to endure that," Tom agreed. "The villains were the people who _created_ the situation, not any man who simply didn't want to throw his life away for them." 

"I don't think _I_ would have survived!" Daisy weighed in from her seat next to Patmore. 

"Nor I," Jimmy seconded, his voice rough. 

"I was upset at the time that I couldn't go, being a little too young. Now I wish my younger self had heard your story, Mr Barrow," Andy added gravely. 

"I'm glad you got out, no matter how you managed it," Mary said, gesturing to his hand. "You were one of the first to join up, and whatever your original intention, you risked your life more than most, by my reck -- you were _overdue_ to come home. And because you did, you were later able to bravely save Edith's life. So I will never stand for anyone -- especially not you yourself -- saying you aren't a hero, just because you reached the end of your strength under such terrifying conditions." 

"Hear, hear, milady," Mrs Hughes agreed, and Anna and Baxter echoed her. 

Barrow seemed at a loss for words, finally managing just a "Thank you, milady," as he slipped his glove back on, red spots high on his cheeks. His eyes fell on Mrs Patmore. "It's not fair, though, is it? I mean, I _did_ essentially _run away_. A different day, a different, more _obvious_ type of escape attempt, and I ... I would have been shot by my own superiors." His voice dropped to a whisper, eyes glittering. 

Mrs Patmore looked up at him. "Well, I'm glad you _weren't_ , Mr Barrow. There was entirely too much of that going on, and it would have been just as much an injustice for you as it was for my nephew. Your story has assured me more than ever that he was wronged -- and I thank you for it." 

"I never did tell you, but I'm sorry for your loss. Truly," he said sincerely, reaching across the table, to where she sat next to Mary and George, to lay his now-covered hand over hers. 

Patmore seemed surprised by the gesture. "Then I thank you for that, too," she replied, laying her free hand over his for a moment, patting it. Then, "And ... I'm sorry for yours. You must have had a few other friends who didn't make it besides that Harry fellow, may his soul rest in peace ...." 

Thomas drew back gently, uncertainty in his eyes. "A few, yeah ...." 

It suddenly occurred to Mary then that she and Barrow might have more in common than she'd ever realised. Remembering how much talking about Matthew had eventually helped her (when she'd finally brought herself to actually do so), and realising that Barrow had likely never had an opportunity to do that himself, she prompted him, "So tell us about them. We should know about and remember as many of those lost to war as we can!" 

With surprising shyness, he obliged, the names and stories coming more readily the more he spoke -- until suddenly he grew hesitant again. "And there was one more, after my wounding, at the hospital. Edward, a lord -- he'd been blinded by mustard gas. I read his mail to him, and ... so I learned that his brother had basically replaced him in his family. He was devastated, felt like everything had been taken from him. Lady Sybil and I did our best to help him learn to get around -- Edward said her presence was like the sun breaking through clouds, a palpable heat he could feel on his face," Barrow added with a bittersweet smile, eyes distant with memory. 

And so Mary had gained another precious, previously unknown moment with a loved one. 

"She was at that," Tom agreed softly, Mary realising that Barrow had given Tom that gift too. 

But what had it cost Barrow to share these memories? Seeing the pain in his eyes now, she wondered if she had been selfish in her supposed altruism, and should have let the man be rather than opening old wounds. 

"His name was Edward, you say?" Tm asked. "I think I remember ... yes, Sybil had said ... he died, didn't he? I remember her being furious, blaming Dr Clarkson for it." 

Barrow nodded, eyes glittering. "Edward ... he was distraught at the idea of being separated from Sybil and myself, terrified of going to a new place, but ... Clarkson said we needed the bed for someone who was ... more _seriously_ injured. So ..." Barrow's voice had grown rough; he cleared his throat, but his voice came out a whisper as he revealed, "Edward slit his wrists." 

Mary glanced reflexively at Barrow's own wrists, though the scars were covered by his shirt-cuffs, and wondered if Edward had been more than a friend. Had Barrow thought to meet the man somewhere beyond the grave? 

A glance around the table told her most there were having similar thoughts, but unsure what -- if anything -- to say. 

"He ... he must have cared about you deeply," Jimmy offered softly. Mary wondered how much the man struggled to say that, after what had happened between him and Barrow. Since, according to Anna, he and Barrow had eventually become good friends, had Jimmy thought about what it might take for his friend to be happy? Maybe Barrow being lavender bothered him on some level still, but judging by his reaction now, he seemed to have learned to outwardly accept it, at the very least. 

She hoped so, anyway, considering what Henry and Tom had in mind .... 

"Yeah, sorry about your friend, Mr Barrow," Daisy chimed in. Her being one of the few present who knew nothing about either Barrow's suicide attempt or his inclinations, her innocent remark eased the tension. 

"Thank you, Daisy, I appreciate it," Barrow replied, pulling himself together. If anyone noticed him wipe a tear away, no one commented on it. "Thank _all_ of you." 

"Like Mr Branson said, the least we could do is listen," Jimmy offered. 

"Well, listening or not, I'm chuffed to see you again -- but I think I've kept everyone long enough," Barrow added, chagrined, as he got to his feet. Indeed, Mary thought the poor man could use a rest after all that, some time to himself to regroup. "Maybe we could nip down to the Grantham Arms when your business is done, though?" he added with a hopeful note that broke Mary's heart a little more. The man had friends now, sure, but maybe none quite like Jimmy. 

"Actually," Tom broke in, "we'd like for you to come with us to the dealership, if you're free, Mr Barrow -- we could all go to the tavern after!" 

Mary wondered if Barrow had ever been so surprised in his life. "Of course he's free -- I say so!" 

"Er ... thank you, milady! I'd be happy to, Mr Branson, if you're quite sure you want my company?" 

"I am, and so is Mr Talbot." 

Mary hid a smile in George's hair, anticipating what was to come next. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will be two more chapters. The next is about 2/3rds written. *EDIT* Okay, now it's looking like this fic will be five or six chapters. And I make no promises it won't be longer. XD


	3. Sales Pitch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mary and Thomas conspire to have Jimmy work for Henry.

"A sales job?" Jimmy echoed Branson as they relaxed in the back office of the dealership; Thomas just managed to keep himself from making the same echo. 

"I-I don't know what to say ..." Jimmy breathed. 

"Yes?" Thomas suggested, failing to keep his tongue in check this time. He missed his friend terribly! 

"What Barrow said," Talbot offered. 

"But ... then I take it you don't know ...." Jimmy worried. 

"There's something _to_ know?" Talbot asked, raising a brow. 

Thomas tried to will the lad to be quiet, to no avail. 

"Well ... I didn't leave the abbey of my own choice," Jimmy winced. "I suspect His Lordship would rather not see my face around the village." 

Talbot, Branson, and Lady Mary exchanged knowing glances -- and suddenly Thomas wondered just what they _did_ know. As far as he knew, His Lordship had never told anyone what had happened! 

"Well, why didn't you tell us why you think so, and we'll be the judge of that," Branson suggested. 

Jimmy paled. "I-I can't with a _lady_ present!" 

Mary rolled her eyes. "Do I seem like a delicate flower to you? If you want any chance of getting this job, you _will_ with a lady present," she insisted, crossing her arms. 

Thomas almost felt sorry for the lad. 

Jimmy swallowed hard. "H ... His Lordship found me in bed with a guest." 

"Lady Anstruther," Lady Mary declared. "I thought as much. She _told_ us you were one of her former employees, and she made moon-eyes at you all night! It was entirely too coincidental that she would leave suddenly without breakfast the next morning -- and that you should leave service the _same_ morning, without working out your notice. Papa got all sour-faced when I tried to ask him about it." 

"We appreciate your honesty, Jimmy -- and we still want you for the job," Talbot informed him. 

"Really?" Jimmy frowned. "Even after I ...." 

"Frankly, I would be a hypocrite if I faulted you for seeking love across the classes," Branson replied. 

Thomas was pretty sure "love" wasn't the most accurate word here, but he also knew it was best not to point that out. The right word, "lust", still began with an "l" -- it was close enough, given that the relationship between Jimmy and Lady Anstruther, whatever the nature, was apparently now _over_ (else Jimmy wouldn't be looking for work. Thomas could hazard a guess as to why Jimmy was now a free agent: young as Jimmy still was, he was a ram in his prime now, and from the sounds of it, Lady Anstruther preferred lambs ...). 

"And as far as we're concerned, what two consenting adults do together behinds closed doors is no one else's business," Talbot added. Thomas knew he liked the fellow .... 

"You understand, though, we still have to clear this with His Lordship" Branson clarified. "We just figured it would be best to make sure you were interested before we go poking the bear, so to speak." 

"But why _me_?" Jimmy pressed. (Thomas was half-ready to swat him upside the head and tell him to stop being an idiot. Affectionately, of course.) 

"Well, you're looking for work, yes?" Branson pointed out. 

Jimmy nodded, blushing. "But how did you even _know_ that?" 

"Because you applied to Hartnell Manor," Lady Mary explained. "Henry and I were visiting Lady Hartnell, and she mentioned having filled a position recently but wishing she'd had room left to take one last candidate, he was so handsome." 

"And I joked that she should throw that candidate _my_ way," Talbot took up the story, "because the dealership has been getting enough business that we wanted to hire a salesman -- preferably young, handsome, and energetic, since Branson and I aren't exactly spring chickens anymore, so it would be nice to have someone around who _is_ one!" 

"Those are strange qualifications," Jimmy noted, as if he were trying to talk them out of it. (Thomas was tempted to kick him in the shin.) "Wouldn't you want someone with _experience_ , first and foremost?" 

"I think we have that covered," Branson assured the lad with a rueful smile.

"Think of all the magazine advertisements out there -- how often are the models over thirty?" Mary weighed in. "From what my sister Edith has said -- you remember her, the magazine editor? She says ads are meant to convince buyers that _they_ can be like the person in the ads, if they just buy the product." 

Talbot nodded. "Exactly right! So we need someone who adds an air of ... _virility_ to our merchandise, when selling to men -- and, well, it's a bonus if they can flirt -- _respectfully_ , mind -- with the occasional independent woman who might come through the door -- something a married fellow like myself obviously can't do." 

"And something I'm not terribly good at," Branson added. "Anyway, Lady Hartnell wrote down your contact information for Henry. When he came home and showed it to me, I realised who you were and thought you were just what we needed." 

"But then they told _me_ ," Lady Mary took up the story, "and _I_ remembered my suspicions over your departure. Not that I had any issue with it personally, but I thought Papa might pose a problem." 

"So, Tom and I talked it over, and decided to feel things out with you first, and save worrying about His Lordship for if you actually said yes -- and here we are!" Talbot finished. 

Jimmy the peacock, bless him, certainly seemed to understand he was being highly complimented. (While Thomas was still a bit smitten with Jimmy even now, once they had settled into real friendship after the mugging, Thomas had started to see how Jimmy wasn't exactly the humblest of blokes ....) 

"Well, I will say you've sparked my interest," Jimmy hedged, as if the men didn't know he was desperate for work. (Thomas kept himself from sighing, shaking his head, or rolling his eyes -- affectionately -- at the young fool.) 

Branson and Talbot began laying out the details, leaving just enough wiggle room in some of them for Jimmy to catch himself on the hook. Fifteen minutes later, they had a tentative agreement on salary, commissions -- and living arrangements. Of course, there was still a Sword of Damocles hanging over it all: whether His Lordship would approve. But Thomas had little doubt Lady Mary would be able to talk her father into it. In the meantime, Jimmy would start the next day in a sort of trial period, at the end of which either party could decline going forward with the longer arrangement. Jimmy would stay in the apartment above the dealership; if he got the job, room and board would be part of his compensation. 

Matters as settled as they _could_ be, and the closing hour upon them, the party went to the Grantham Arms to celebrate with dinner. Thomas was surprised how at-ease he felt, eating and drinking alongside Lady Mary, despite how surreal it was. Not that such happenings were entirely unheard of -- the Family served the servants on Christmas Eve, and his Lordship was known to eat lunch at the pub when he was out checking on the nearby businesses -- but Thomas had never personally had an encounter like the latter! Indeed, he'd tried to beg off -- Carson was still his senior, and doubtless would _not_ approve -- but Mary pointed out that Carson could never refuse her anything, and she wanted Thomas to join them, so that was that. 

Thomas reflected on how Sybil had helped Gwen and married a servant, and how Mary had let her lady's maid give birth in her own bed. He knew the world was changing; perhaps the deterioration of the barriers between servant and employer was part of that. If so, the Crawley girls seemed determined to lead the charge -- and he wasn't about to stop them. 

~* * *~ 

"Barrow?" Lady Mary asked as he held the front door to the abbey open for her. "Let's talk in the library a moment, if you don't mind. Henry, I'll tuck George in after -- don't wait up for me," she added with a kiss to her husband's cheek. 

"You know I will anyway, darling. Barrow," Talbot nodded, heading for the stair, Branson telling Thomas gooodnight before doing the same. 

Thomas couldn't shake the feeling that they saw him as a friend, not just the help, try as he might to remember his place. It was just ... maybe that place had changed? 

"Barrow," the lady began lowly, closing the door behind her, "I wondered if you might have some insight on that night my father caught Jimmy ... _in flagrante_. Or even just some character insight -- some kindness Jimmy has done? Something that might ... I don't know ... _soften_ my father's view of him?" 

Thomas pursed his lips, thinking. If he were honest, Jimmy was only nice to those he liked -- he could be downright vicious to those he didn't. Without the blinders of adoration on, Thomas knew kindness was not one of Jimmy's virtues. Dare he lie to Lady Mary and claim otherwise? 

No. She had been kind to him, and facilitated his return to Downton. He would never betray her. Besides, he'd long had a feeling they were alike, the pair of them -- unlucky in love, and something of dark horses whose worse nature often got the better of them. 

Lady Mary mistook his silence. "Oh, come now, Barrow, did you really think no one would notice when the pair of you mended fences a years or so after the ... _incident_? Jimmy went from giving you death glares across the dining table to being the new Mrs O'Brien practically overnight! Surely you know _something_ that would help!" 

Thomas felt like the floor fell out from under him. "The ... the _incident_?" he stammered. He'd thought only His Lordship, Carson, Mrs Hughes, Alfred, O'Brien, and the Bateses had known the details! 

"What? Oh, yes, _that_. Yes, I know what shade of a fellow you are -- and I'm perfectly fine with it, I might add. So are Mr Talbot and Mr Branson, for that matter. Henry and I have several men of that shade amongst our circle of friends. Fact is, when Papa went to America, _I_ was the one who suggested he take you, in part because I thought it would present you with some ... opportunities. And from what I gathered from Papa, and the spring I saw in your step after, I'm fairly sure you _found_ them," she finished with a wry smile. 

Thomas fell heavily onto the sofa behind him. He'd thought he'd been _discreet_! And here Lady Mary not only knew, but had been _supportive_ of his inclinations? And her father knew about his shipboard fling and yet hadn't _fired_ him? 

Mary hurriedly sat beside him, taking his good hand. "No, no, Barrow, don't worry! We haven't discussed your ... _preferences_ with _anyone_ else, save for those who already knew! Honestly, I'm not sure even Mama or Edith know. It's just ... well, Papa and I are able to speak candidly about such things with each other, you see. So I yes, I know all about what happened with you and Jimmy, but I _also_ know it was a misunderstanding. And I want you to know that, when Papa talked about letting you go last year, I tried to talk him out of it. I've seen how you are with George and Sybbie, much like Carson was for me -- I'm ever so glad you came back! I want you to be to me as Carson was to my father. And in turn, I want you to have as happy of a life here as we can make for you, for as long as you want it." 

Thomas felt that he'd just been given a great gift, beyond the gift of not having been sacked after "the incident", or being hired back as butler, or even Baxter and Andy having saved his life: he had an employer who knew what he was and accepted it -- and even, it seemed, offered the promise of a home and financial security till the end of his days. The lifting of that burden left him light-headed. 

Pulling himself together, he told her, "You have been beyond kind to me, milady. And although I am sure I am not deserving, I will do my best to be worthy of your trust and confidence, and that of your family, for as long as I am able. I love and will protect your children with my life. Ask of me what you will." 

Mary nodded, smiling more genuinely than he could ever recall seeing her (or frankly, had ever believed her capable of). "Well, then. Let us begin our new partnership by planning how to persuade Papa to welcome Jimmy back to town, for the sake of your friendship and my Henry's business! Is there anything at all you can think of that might help?" 

"Well, admittedly he had sent Lady Anstruther a Valentine's card a couple of times after moving to Downton -- kind of as a joke, really. But then she started sending him love letters -- which he ignored, but she got rather insistent about seeing him. Finally, he _called_ her -- and despite him telling her he wasn't interested, she came to town and faked that car trouble. Once here, she kept trying to talk to him, even passed him a note at dinner -- which Carson spotted her doing. Fearing he'd get sacked if she kept things up, Jimmy decided to accept her invitation to her room, hoping to convince her to leave." He knew he should have left thingsthere, as much for Jimmy's sake as his own, but Thomas suddenly found he couldn't bear to keep a secret from his lady now. "And, well, he _was_ also tempted by her seduction. At any rate, I figured one way or another he needed to get things worked out with her, so ... I helped him get to her room. _That_ was why I was in the gallery than night." 

Lady Mary was silent; he was sure he'd said too much. Then, softly, she told him with kindness, "I appreciate your honesty, Barrow. Helping him under such circumstances must have been hard, given your feelings for him." She squeezed his hand. 

Thomas blinked back tears, suddenly overwhelmed by the memories of how he'd felt that night (and the next morning), but also moved by her compassion. "Silly, isn't it? Feeling like that about him still, when he made it beyond clear he didn't reciprocate ...." 

"The heart wants what it wants, Thomas; it's our master, not vice versa. But I think he knows what a good friend he has in you, and cares deeply for you, even if he can't return your feelings the way you'd like." 

Thomas remembered Jimmy's words to him, both from that night and the next morning, and believed his lady was right, his heart lightening. Jimmy might not love him like a lover, but he believed Jimmy did love him as a friend, and that wasn't nothing. 

"In any case, it seems your helping him was Providence -- otherwise, we might all be dead!" Lady Mary pointed out. "Now, back to business -- I think I can spin that story into something that will sway Papa. Honestly, Edith should hire me for her magazine ...." 

~* * *~ 

"So how goes it at the dealership?" His Lordship asked Talbot and Branson at dinner the night Lord and Lady Grantham returned. 

"Very well!" Talbot replied cheerfully. "I hired a salesman recently! Been trying him out in a sort of trial period, and he's doing a _smashing_ job -- he sold _six cars_ this week! He almost didn't _take_ the job, though!" 

Thomas nearly dropped the Merlot. He thought _Lady Mary_ was going to handle her father! Had she not told _Talbot_ that? Thomas glanced at her -- she didn't look to be alarmed, so maybe this was all part of her plan? He calmed himself, trusting in his lady -- and hoping she didn't just look calm because she was good at being The Unflappable Ice Queen. 

"Oh? I suppose this fellow wanted a bigger commission?" Grantham laughed. 

"Oh, no, it wasn't that ... it's ... well, I've been meaning to talk to you about it, Robert ..." Branson hedged. 

"Yes, Tom and the poor lad both said something about needing to ask you before dotting any 'i's or crossing any 't's," Talbot interrupted. "But I pointed out that the fellow needed a job sooner rather than later, so I came up with an excuse to get him to stay without officially hiring him, at least until you came back -- hence the trial period. If you want him to go, we'll just say it didn't work out, of course, but I have to be frank: it'd be a damn shame!" 

"How strange!" Lord Grantham replied warily. "What's his name?" 

"James Kent. Tom says he used to work here?" 

"Oh, I remember him!" Her Ladyship smiled. (Thomas had a feeling she only knew that he'd worked there, not why he'd left.) 

"Yes, _him_ ," His Lordship said with more than a little disgust as he set his fork down, clearly put off his food. (Thomas wasn't feeling so hot either now -- this wasn't going well.) "Yes, he _did_ work here -- until I caught him ... _in flagranté delicto_ with a guest." 

"Oh, dear!" Cora commented, her fingers not hiding the curling corners of her mouth. (Thomas suspected, being an American, Cora was a bit harder to fluster with a scandal than, say, the Dowager.) 

Talbot snorted. "Ah, the indiscretions of our youth! No wonder he seemed terrified when he learned I was connected to you! He said I'd have to ask _you_ about the details because he wasn't sure you'd want him to tell me, and now I see why. I feel sorry for him, though. I assume the guest was a noble?" 

"Yes -- his old employer, in point of fact," Grantham answered, clearly wishing to drop the subject. 

"Poor lad! I would imagine it was all the harder for him to say no to her!" Talbot pointed out. "What about you, Mr Barrow? You had to have worked with him -- can you shed any light on the situation?" 

Thomas took a deep breath, trying to steel his nerves. He and Mary had carefully worked out what he would say if he was asked. It wasn't lies, per se -- and it wasn't like he hadn't full-on lied to his employers before anyway, but ... things were different now. He didn't want to be that person anymore. Still, in his eyes, his first loyalty was to Mary (who had prompted His Lorship to hire him as butler), a least a bit over her father. And, well, he had been enjoying the past two weeks with Jimmy around, and didn't want to lose that .... 

"I seem to remember Jimmy being worried because Lady Anstruther had been sending letters of an ... _armourous_ nature for a goodly while -- I was under the impression she'd had similar expectations of him when he was in her employee, and that was why, when she'd moved to France, he didn't go with her. She seemed to be trying to get him back into her employ once she'd returned to England." No, it wasn't completely true that she was trying to get him back, or that she's treated Jimmy like a rent boy -- or rather, Jimmy had never expressly stated that either was the case -- but it was entirely plausible .... "I'm guessing he'd hoped that, if he was ... _unimpressive_ , she'd then leave him be." Again, Thomas didn't know if it was true, but it was at least plausible. 

"And then the poor lad lost his job here because of her, and got sucked back into her employ anyway?" Talbot finished. 

"Yes, he tried to find other work first, but even with good references, work is hard to come by these days." He didn't actually know if Jimmy tried to get other work or not; he doubted it. Again, though, given his own experience looking for work, he doubted Jimmy would have found a job even if he _had_ gone looking elsewhere first. 

"Well, I'm glad he seems to have gotten away from her," Talbot said cheerfully. "I think he deserves a fresh start. But if we _do_ give him one, then he's likely to be here at the house now and then. So what say you, Robert?" Talbot asked. 

"If _my_ opinion counts for anything, _I_ don't think what he did was really so terrible," Lady Mary weighed in. "I mean, could any of us say we haven't made poor -- even scandalous -- choices at some point? Yet here we are, past them and happy. Come to think of it, _without_ scandalous behavior, _you'd_ be missing a couple of grandchildren!" 

There was a strange tension between father and daughter then. Thomas fully didn't understand it, but it gave him hope. (The remark about "a couple of grandchildren", meaning more than Sybbie, also confirmed for him his suspicions about Lady Edith and her ward Marigold, but it just made him all the more happy for her. Still, it was a good thing Lady Mary had suggested Andy have the night off, leaving Thomas alone to serve the Family!) 

His Lordship deflated. "All right, then, yes -- everyone deserves a second chance. Keep him, if that's what you want. I won't kick him to the curb if I see him here -- provided he doesn't give me another _reason_ to." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter originally was nearly twice as long, but I decided to split it for ease of reading. Now I'm debating whether to wait with posting the back half and merge it with the chapter after (which I've barely begun), or just post as-is. In any case, this fic is turning out to be a lot longer than I'd originally planned, LOL! (Honestly, by now you'd think I'd be used to it.)
> 
> After having it mostly written, I decided to re-watch 5.1 to check some details -- and realised Robert probably didn't say anything to anyone about why Jimmy left! XD Soooo I did some tweaking. Hopefully it's all believable and makes sense, even if, for drama, I probably made Robert a bit more cantankerous about it all than he seemed when he'd talked to Carson (although not when he'd *caught* them). (And if it's not believable and / or doesn't make sense ... oh, well! XD)


	4. Congratulations and Revelations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jimmy learns about his friend's scars.

"Soooo, Mr Talbot just called me with some exciting news -- but I assume you were there when things were decided?" Jimmy asked, leaning in the doorway to the abbey kitchen, watching Thomas wash dishes while Patmore puttered around the room. It was almost like encountering a unicorn, seeing the ever-proud Thomas lower himself like that to do menial labour -- he really did seem a different man since last Jimmy had seen him! Less proud -- and kinder. Which had come first, Jimmy wondered -- the promotion or the humility? 

"Indeed I was," Thomas grinned. "I, uh ... may even be said to, ah ... have _contributed_ to the decision," he added coyly. 

Jimmy boggled. 

"Well, I _am_ the butler now. You don't think His Lordship asked Carson things now and then?" Mrs Patmore made a skeptical sound; shockingly, Thomas smiled fondly, rather than putting her in her place for questioning his authority. "You should thank Lady Mary, by the by," Thomas added, "but for right now, you could thank _me_ by drying, eh?" 

Jimmy felt a flush of affection and gratitude towards Thomas. (To think, once upon a time, he would have resented the man's help!) "Aye, that's the _least_ I could do," Jimmy agreed, quickly grabbing a towel and taking up a glass. 

Jimmy just happened to look over at the sink, when he noticed a dark line of pink going up a bared wrist. 

Jimmy almost dropped the glass. 

Was _that_ why there was such a marked change in Thomas? Jimmy's high evaporated. He knew Thomas hadn't exactly had many friends; if Jimmy hadn't been so stupid as to send Lady Anstruther those valentines, he wouldn't have set himself up to get fired, and so would have been here for Thomas! Instead, he'd basically abandoned the poor fellow, leaving him with naught to anchor him to life! 

And then Jimmy realised he was wrong -- someone besides himself _had_ been a friend to Thomas. _They_ were the reason Thomas was _still here_! Whoever they were, Jimmy owed them as much as he did Thomas and Lady Mary .... 

Jimmy was something of an actor -- it was why he'd done so well selling cars. He used that ability now to keep the smile on his face as he and Thomas finished off the dishes. "You game for a drink at the pub when we're done? My treat! I want to celebrate!" 

"Nnn, I've an early morning, I'm afraid," Thomas begged off as he washed the last plate, "but I'm happy to share some of my personal stock with you before you go! Honestly, it's probably better than what we'd find at the Arms, anyway. A welcome-home gift from His Lordship when I came back to be butler." 

"Well, I'll gladly take some of that, if you explain what you mean by 'came back'," Jimmy agreed. He had a feeling the story would involve the scars; the momentary flash of dismay and subsequent look of resignation on his friend's face, as the man started putting the final round of dried dishes in the cupboards, all but confirmed as much. 

"Anything else I can do for you, Mrs Patmore?" Thomas asked when their task was done. 

Patmore looked about. "No, I think that's done it, thank you -- and you, Mr Kent. Good night to you both." Jimmy wasn't entirely sure he believed Patmore's gratitude towards him, but she seemed to mean it towards Thomas, which Jimmy was glad to see. 

"Good night, then, Mrs Patmore, and sleep well!" Thomas replied, just as genuinely. 

Jimmy echoed him (more or less), then followed his friend into the butler's office. Thomas silently filled a rock glass and handed it to Jimmy, then filled one for himself and came around to lean against the front of the desk. Jimmy sat on what the employees had come to call "the petitioner's seat" when he'd worked at Downton; he wondered idly whether anyone called it that now, with Thomas in charge. 

"So, congratulations ..." Thomas offered. 

"To you, as well!" Jimmy returned. There was an awkward, silent moment, before Jimmy finally worked up the nerve to say, "Thomas ... a-about your wrists ..." Before Thomas could say it was nothing, or ask not to talk about it, Jimmy hurried on. "Look, I know it's none of my business, but for what it's worth, I'm sorry I wasn't there for you like I should have been." 

Thomas chuckled, shaking his head. "Jimmy, it wasn't your fault. It wasn't _anyone's_ but my own -- I dug my grave, little by little, over the years. When the economy gave him the excuse, Carson was only too happy to be rid of such a thorn in his side -- and who could blame him? Unfortunately for me, I mistakenly chose a field that I thought, when I was a lad, had longevity, y'know?" 

Jimmy did; he'd assumed he'd be in service the rest of his own life, and had Thomas to thank as much as anyone for his new career! He thought now on how service had given Thomas a new lease on life when the man's father had thrown him out, ending his apprenticeship in clockworks. It wasn't hard to imagine how losing the profession that had saved Thomas would then cost the man his life! Jimmy was all the more grateful His Lordship had talked Jimmy into letting Thomas stay .... 

"It didn't help that I went out of my way to be unfriendly to everyone I worked with," Thomas mused. "I suppose some part of me figured I should hurt others before they could hurt me. But humans are social creatures -- we need friends like we need food and air, and I ... well, I basically starved myself, didn't I?" 

"Seems to me most people would hate you for who you are regardless of your disposition, Thomas," Jimmy pointed out. "You've had to work much harder for it than anyone -- and I, for one, am grateful you did, in my case. I'm sorry it took so long for me to come around. And, well, that it took you taking beating on my behalf in order for me to see how good a man you are!" 

Thomas grew rueful. "I wasn't all _that_ good to _most_ people. Like it or not, you had a bit of an advantage, there." (Thankfully, Thomas quickly moved on from that point.) "At any rate, I found myself alone, with no job prospects. Come to think of it, there was even a man who we could say proves your point -- he figured I _must_ be lavender because I had yet to be married, and so he immediately turned me down as a prospective employee!" 

"What? Just because you aren't married??" 

"Well, he wasn't exactly _wrong_ ...." 

"Still, that's a ridiculous assumption -- it's just coincidence! I mean, Carson is much older and not married--"

"Well, he is _now_ , actually," Thomas informed him. 

" _What?_ No! _Really?_ To wh--oh wait, let me guess: Mrs Hughes?" 

"I always knew you were a bright lad!" Thomas chuckled. 

Jimmy shuddered, trying not to think of the pair together. 

"She's been kind to me, actually," Thomas insisted. "I think she knew someone of my shade. And there was Baxter, whom I've known since I was just a lad. I dragged her here for my own devices and was _awful_ to her, yet she never shied away. She even took me to Dr Clarkson when I --" Thomas stopped short, looking alarmed. "Uh ... got sick," he finished with a nervous little laugh. 

"Thomas? Come on, we're friends -- you can tell me anything," Jimmy promised gently. 

Thomas shrugged, brow furrowed. He opened his mouth like he was going to scoff, and say there was nothing more to it ... but then looked at Jimmy -- really looked at him -- and apparently thought better of it. His eyes dropped and his shoulders sagged in embarrassment. "I got an infection from these shots I'd been giving myself." 

"Shots? Thomas! Were you doing _heroine_??" 

Thomas laughed outright at that. "No, decidedly _not_." 

"But then what ...?" And then it dawned on Jimmy. "Oh! Oh, Thomas ... you mean one of those treatments I've seen advertised in the paper?" 

Thomas wouldn't meet his eyes as he nodded. 

"Did you ... did you get ... _shock treatments_?" 

Again a nod. 

Again, Jimmy couldn't help but feel some responsibility, this time for any self-loathing Thomas must have felt, to be driven to such lengths. Suddenly, he felt a hot tear burn its way down his face, even as bile threatened to rise, thinking of his friend going through such torture. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry I--" 

"Don't be," Thomas cut him off. "It _wasn't_ what happened back then that drove me to it, I promise. It's just ... I'd seen Bates get the job I wanted -- _twice_ \-- and watched him have his happy little home life with Anna. I'd seen Branson, just as low-born as I, off being happy with Lady Sybil. I'd seen Lady Rose go marry her fellow -- ironically, I even helped her deal with a bigoted father-in-law! And I've watched His Lordship with Her Ladyship the entire time I've been here. Some dark part of me felt a kinship with Lady Mary when she'd lost her Matthew -- here, I thought, is someone who will henceforth always be as lonely as I -- but I'm happy that she found her Henry, don't get me wrong. It's more a matter of ... we're told our whole lives that that's what it means to be happy: fall in love, have a family ... and then _I'm_ told I can't _ever_ have that. Told in not so many words that no one even wants me _around_ because of what I can't help wanting. So yeah, much as I insisted for most of my years that there was nothing wrong with me, it got harder and harder not to start seeing myself as everyone else seemed to -- as _broken_ \-- and want to _fix_ myself, so I _could_ have what everyone else has. And, well, also so people would stop trying to punish me for how I was made." 

Jimmy winced; he'd been amongst those people, those who'd tried to punish him. And truth be told, he _was_ still a bit sickened by the idea of men being together -- it was just that Jimmy understood now that being disgusted by it was as pointless as being sickened by someone else eating a food he didn't like or watching a movie he didn't want to see. And if he were to bring religion into it, well ... the afterlife was looking pretty toasty for Jimmy, too. And in all honesty, Thomas had been more loyal, more devoted, and kinder to Jimmy than anyone else he'd ever met! The idea of Thomas being damned for _love_ was just too awful to believe .... 

"But then Clarkson told me there wasn't really any way _to_ make me like everyone else," Thomas sighed. "And really, I learned to live with that -- for a while, anyway -- thanks in part to Baxter. But then someone on the staff warned Andy about me, and he started giving me the cold shoulder. Even so, eventually he accepted me after all, and I started teaching him to read -- and then Carson thought I was up to something nefarious with him, because at the time, Andy didn't want anyone to know I was helping him, so we were sneaking around. And when his literacy issues were finally found out, some teacher offered to teach him instead, and I felt ... _abandoned_. Like I would never be good enough for anyone, and everyone would always assume the worst -- perhaps rightly so. Add that on top of Carson badgering me to look for work elsewhere, and me trying and trying to do that but not finding anyone who would take me on, and eventually I just ... gave up." 

To Jimmy's relief, there were no tears in his friend's eyes, no sound of defeat, so much as an air of reflection; Thomas might always bear the scars, but he had somehow escaped the source of them (and hopefully would stay forevermore out of its reach!). Jimmy had come to think, upon hearing the man's stories about the war, that Thomas might actually be one of the strongest, bravest men he knew, but Jimmy could still see how loneliness might bring such a man down. Jimmy was struck by how profoundly unfair it was that Thomas should be born as he was and then denied happiness -- and Jimmy was beyond glad (even proud) that his friend seemed to have found some happiness _anyway_. 

"Baxter and Andy found me in the tub -- somehow Baxter had figured out my intentions, and Andy bust the door down. _Saved_ me. They, and Mrs Hughes, Anna, Miss Sybbie, Master George, Lady Mary ... even Carson and Bates and His Lordship, and Lady Grantham ... they all, in one way or another, convinced me that I _wasn't_ hated -- that some people even _liked_ me, wonder of wonders. They wanted me to be a _better man_ , not disappear -- else why would they bother keeping me alive?" 

Jimmy decided not to point out that guilt could be a good motivator, or that really good people felt that way about _everyone_. Even if Carson might not really care about Thomas, Jimmy did, and he was glad of any efforts made to keep his friend alive, no matter what the reason. And really, he thought Baxter's and Anna's affections, at least, were genuine. 

"Eventually, I did find new employers," Thomas went on. "Oh, they were dreadfully dull, to be sure, but thankfully my time with them wasn't meant to be forever. Lady Edith got married, and at the reception afterwards, Carson had difficulties pouring the wine. I offered to help, and Lady Mary suggested it might be for the best if I actually took Carson's position. His Lordship and Carson agreed, and so here we are. Although, Carson is still sort of my superior, but honestly, he's been good about it. _Everyone_ has, really. In fact, I'm even godfather to little John Bates, Jr, if you can believe it!" 

"I _can_ ," Jimmy assured him earnestly. "I've seen you this past week -- Master George and Miss Sybbie adore you! This new life really suits you, Thomas. I told you when I left that I hoped you would find happiness, and you did find some, of a sort -- I just wish it hadn't been such a hard road for you to _get_ here." 

"I appreciate that, Jimmy. Do you know, though, funnily enough, I'm not really sorry that it was so rough a path?" Thomas mused. "I'm not sure I _could_ have gotten here by any other road -- certainly not and still _appreciate_ it like I do now. I know that Lady Mary means to keep me through all my days, as His Lordship did with Carson -- the Crawleys may not need full-time footmen anymore, but they're always going to need someone to manage a house this size for them. I have a secure job, a home, friends, a family, multiple people who know what I am and accept me anyway -- even _care_ about me. I haven't really had _all_ of that at the same time since I was a boy. I'm determined to _keep_ my family this time -- and I _think_ I have a good understanding of how to do that now." 

"Cheers, then, to many long, prosperous years for us both in Downton!" Jimmy enthused, holding up his glass. 

"Ta!" Thomas agreed, tapping his glass against Jimmy's. 

Jimmy had a strange feeling like they had sealed a pact, a spell that would make his words a reality. He certainly hoped so .... 

~* * *~ 

Mary had come down to the office to thank Barrow for his help, but heard a murmuring through the door. She realised Jimmy was in there, and meant to leave them to it, she really did, but then she'd heard Jimmy ask if Barrow had been doing heroine, and, well, she had to know if he _was_ , didn't she? For the safety of her children? (Even if the idea of Barrow doing heroin struck her as pretty ludicrous ....)

And then she heard his story. 

She remembered two periods where she had noted, off-handedly, that Barrow had been looking dreadful for weeks -- the second instance, she knew, was when he'd been growing depressed, as his story confirmed. The first, she now suspected, was when he'd been taking the "treatments". She imagined him undergoing the shock therapy, all alone and praying the pain would heal him, and stifled a sob. She supposed he would have shrugged his illness off if she'd asked him how he was back then, but she could have told Carson to insist he be checked out. Especially as an infection could have _killed_ him! 

She'd always thought herself aware of and sympathetic to the lives of the people in her family's employ, but she understood now that she still had a long ways to go -- that she still had moments (far too many of them!) where she saw the servants as fixtures of the house, instead of as people. She needed to do better. 

Suddenly, she got the idea to call Edith on the morrow .... 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At least two more chapters planned, one half-written.


	5. The Model and the Photographer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thomas makes a new ... _friend_.

"Oh! Mr Molesley! Good afternoon," Thomas greeted the teacher when he spotted the man in the pharmacy. He was surprised to see the man, it being around one in the afternoon on a school day, but he didn't feel it was his place to ask. Maybe his class took lunch a bit late. 

"Afternoon, Mr Barrow," Molesley returned, seeming uneasy. Given that they hadn't had much in the way of cordial exchanges, Thomas supposed he couldn't blame the man. Mosley went back to looking over an assortment of perfumes, and Thomas, internally shrugging, turned his attention to his errand: picking up more pomade for his hair, as well as prescriptions for Mr Carson, Mrs Hughes, and Mrs Patmore. 

He was about to leave, when Molesley sneezed, and Thomas realised the man was _still_ by the perfume. And then Thomas remembered what day was coming. "Are you thinking perfume for Baxter's birthday on Sunday?" 

Mosley seemed affronted for half a second, probably ready to tell Thomas it was no concern of his (and Thomas wouldn't have blamed him), before his shoulders sagged in defeat. "I was. Not a good idea?" 

"Nnn, yes and no. She's sensitive to certain smells -- gives her a headache. She tends to just use essential oils instead of perfumes." 

"Oh? You seem to know a lot about it ...." The man seemed a bit disgruntled; did he think Thomas competition? Thomas barely stifled a snort. 

"Well, she was my sister's best friend -- she was practically my sister herself," Thomas pointed out, hoping that might smooth the man's feathers at least a little. 

Molesley's demeanor became a bit more friendly. "I don't suppose you, ah, have any suggestions as to what she might like?" 

Thomas nodded. "She typically goes with lilac, peppermint, or lemon, as I recall, and isn't so much a fan of lavender. Her favourite is actually rose, but it's pretty pricey, and I haven't noted her wearing it in a very long time." Not since she was a young lass, before Thomas was kicked out of his home .... 

"Rose, eh?" Molesley picked up a bottle -- and his eyes comically bulged. 

"You know, I could hold on to what I made for her until Christmas, and we could split the cost of the rose for her birthday," Thomas suggested. "It'd be a great treat for her." A treat neither of them could give her alone. 

Molesley hesitated; Thomas wasn't sure if it was because the price was still a bit steep, or because the man (understandably) wanted to give her a gift all on his own, or because (also understandably) he didn't like the idea of accepting anything --- money, or even just advice -- from Thomas. "Are you sure?" Molesley asked, wincing. 

Thomas wasn't sure which answer Molesley would prefer. Then he decided it didn't matter. "She deserves the best." 

Molesley looked fondly upon the bottle. "That she does," he replied softly. 

~* * *~ 

"Thomas?" 

Jimmy Looked quite surprised to see him, and Thomas couldn't imagine why -- they'd had lunch together every Wednesday for three months now! He supposed it was bound to happen sooner or later, but still his stomach sank a little at the prospect that Jimmy might have grown tired of him. 

"Didn't Bradley tell you I called?" Jimmy asked. 

Relieved to hear there was a specific reason Jimmy wasn't expecting him (but now worried for a different reason), Thomas replied, "I've been out running errands today -- is something wrong?" 

"Oh! No, not exactly -- it's just that I actually have to work through lunch today!" Jimmy winced apologetically. 

"My fault, I'm afraid," said an unexpectedly mellifluous voice off to the left. 

The lovely tenor belonged to a stunningly handsome, roguish face, with eyes as green as the woods in summer -- and as easy to get lost in .... 

"I had a sudden opening in my schedule today," the man continued, brushing a stray lock of shaggy brown mane behind an ear (and melting a certain butler's knees in the process), "and Mr Kent here kindly agreed to move the shoot up." 

"Shoot?" Thomas asked, suddenly noticing the camera the man held up (before being distracted by the dark hairs peeking out from the man's Henley, thanks to two buttons of his top-shirt being undone, and the lack of a tie). 

"Mr Buchanan here was hired by _The Sketch_ to take some photographs for an article on stylish cars," Talbot explained, "and Jimmy here agreed to be his model." 

"Oh! I'll get out of your hair, then -- I'll see you Sunday, Jimmy?" 

"Oh, no, no, don't leave on my account!" Buchanan protested. "In fact ... would you be willing to model as well, Mr ..." 

"Er ... Barrow," Thomas managed, otherwise struck speechless. This all-too-fetching fellow thought Thomas was attractive enough to be a _model_? 

"I think the pair of you together would make for a brilliant contrast!" Buchanan enthused. "Two handsome lads, one fair-haired and tan, the other dark-haired and fair-complexioned ...." 

"Aren't I a little long in the tooth, though?" Thomas asked, remembering Lady Mary remarking on how most models were under thirty. 

"Gracious, no -- a tiny bit more experienced than Kent here, maybe, but you still look to be in your prime!" Buchanan insisted. 

"Well, I thank you for that," Thomas blushed, "but I'm not sure His Lordship would approve." 

"If Papa complains," Lady Mary piped up (startling Thomas, who hadn't realised she was there), "I'll tell him that _I_ asked you to do it, as a favour to Edith. And if that's not enough, I'll tell him that, as his estate agent, I advise him that what's good for a business in the village is good for the village as a whole -- we put your faces in _The Sketch_ and say where the photos were taken, and people will come here to buy cars in the hopes of seeing you both, and maybe shop some other stores whilst in town!" 

"But ... begging your pardon, milady, but I don't work here ...." Thomas pointed out. 

She shrugged. "The readers won't know that. And if they come on the right day, they might see you here anyway," she added with a hint of mischief in her smile. 

"Gracious, you were right, Henry -- she really does have an answer for everything!" Buchanan laughed. 

"That's why I married her," Talbot grinned. 

"Good answer," Lady Mary told him, rewarding her husband with a quick peck on the lips. 

"Well, I told milady she could ask anything of me, and I meant it," Thomas decided. (Besides, he'd be a fool to turn down a chance to spend more time with Mr Buchanan! Although, he hoped he wasn't setting himself up for disappointment ....) "Just tell me what to do." 

"Well, first, you've got to hold still," Lady Mary told him -- and then began lightly patting his face with powder. After that, she came at his eyes with a charcoal pencil (which, honestly, was a little terrifying). "There. He's all yours, Jefferson," she told the photographer. There was something about the way she said it that made the butler's stomach flip. 

"Absolutely wonderful!" Buchanan crowed, eyeing her handiwork with a hand under the butler's chin. (Thomas would not allow himself to believe the man's fingers slid lingeringly along his jaw before pulling away.) "Now, for this shoot, I want you pretend that Mr Kent is selling a car to you, all right?" 

"I don't know that I'm much of an actor," Thomas confessed, fearing he was about to make a fool of himself. 

"Oh, you don't have to be, don't worry!" Buchanan assured him. "Just pay attention as Jimmy tries to sell you the car, and ask any questions that might pop into your head -- or not. You'll be fine. You two just relax over that vehicle there for a moment, while I set up the lights," Buchanan directed them. 

After watching Buchanan fuss with lamps and sheer fabric for a minute or two, Thomas focused on Jimmy, even if that wasn't really much better than staring at the handsome newcomer; Thomas still carried a bit of a torch for the blond, after all. Or maybe it _was_ better, because Thomas was thinking about Buchanan while looking at Jimmy, and in a way it was like they each cancelled the other out. And as Jimmy told him a funny story about a buyer from earlier that day, they slipped into their easy camaraderie. At one point, as they laughed richly together, Thomas heard a click, then saw Buchanan wind the film for the next shot. 

"That was _beautiful_!" Buchanan told them. (Thomas felt his heart skip.) "Sorry for the lack of warning, but candid shots are always best -- whatever else we get today, I'm fairly certain _that_ one will end up in _The Sketch_! Now, Mr Kent, start selling to Mr Barrow." 

Jimmy seemed as nervous as Thomas felt at first, but quickly got into his pitch -- and Thomas had to admit, his friend was good. Thomas did his best to ask questions, but really, he didn't have many, Jimmy was so thorough, often anticipating what Thomas would ask before Thomas could actually ask it! Thomas found himself considering after a while that maybe he _should_ get a car .... 

"Okay, that's the end of the roll, milads!" Buchanan informed them. "For the next roll, I'd like to take things outside, if you don't mind. First a few with the car in park, and then we'll take it on the road! You mind driving me, Henry?" 

"Not in the slightest," Talbot assured him. 

~* * *~ 

Thomas thought Buchanan meant they would do a shoot in another location, but it turned out that the man really did mean "on the road" -- Jimmy drove one car, with Thomas as passenger, and Talbot drove ahead of them, with Mary beside him, and Tom and Buchanan in the back seat, Buchanan facing Jimmy and Thomas. Thomas did his best to put on a relaxed face, however much his heart was hammering, knowing those beautiful eyes were on him. They did take a fiew pics with the vehicles standing still, first; Buchanan didn't reckon even one of the on-the-road pics would turn out, that part being more of an experiment. Thomas was fascinated by the idea of being so keen to try something even if one was betting an effort would end in failure, since failure had long been one of his greatest fears. He thought he could learn a thing or two from the photographer. 

Happily, when they arrived at their destination, it was clear the photographer wasn't going anywhere just yet. First, they took some shots around the grounds. Then, they took some in Downton's garage, where Jimmy dressed as a mechanic. (Fastidious as Thomas was, he was glad to be spared getting dirty; for his part, Jimmy didn't look too thrilled.) When Buchanan finished the roll, he declared it was time for an early dinner. 

"Where's a good place to get a bite around here," the man asked. "My treat, Mr Kent, Mr Barrow -- I always buy my models dinner!" 

"There's only the Grantham Arms, really." Jimmy weighed in. 

"Or here," Lady Mary suggested. 

The butler's growling stomach liked that idea, but, "Begging your pardon, milady, but Mrs Patmore's at her bed-and-breakfast today ...." 

"Oh, I know -- I placed an order with her when we were at the dealership," Lady Mary revealed. "She said she would send a delivery boy over with it around four." A clock chime told them it was 3:30. 

"Oh! Uh ... should I set the dining room table?" Thomas wondered. 

"Oh, no, Thomas, you did your work already -- like Mr Buchanan said, we feed our models. With Mama and Papa out of town, I thought we'd just eat in the servants' hall," Lady Mary suggested. "We can all just grab some plates and cutlery," she added, heading for the kitchen. Thomas followed her in -- and almost smacked into her when she stopped short. "It occurs to me, I have no idea where anything is ...." 

Thomas chuckled, then coughed, mortified that he'd dared to laugh at his employer. "R-right this way, milady ...." 

~* * *~ 

Bradley and the rest of the servants soon came down to the servants' hall, one after another, announcing they were done with their tasks; Thomas dismissed them, save for Baxter and the Bateses, whom Mary invited to join them. The delivery boy arrived promptly. Before long, after a salad and a hearty stew served with Patmore's famous rolls, they were enjoying the pie and wine Mrs Patmore sent along for their pudding course. (Thomas had to wonder: did she know cherry-blueberry was his favourite, or was it Lady Mary's too?) Meal finished, they chatted a while, asking each other about their childhoods, their interests, anecdotes of Downton and elsewhere, blurring the lines between employer and employee. 

"So, did Lady Edith send you for the shoot today, Mr Buchanan, or were you already acquaintanced with Mr Talbot?" Thomas finally worked up the nerve to ask (and utterly forgetting he should be calling Lady Edith "Lady Hexam" now).

"Please, call me Jefferson! And a little of both, actually," the photographer revealed. "Henry, our friend Charlie, and I were like the Three Musketeers back at Eaton -- well, if Porthos were dating Aramis." (Thomas felt sucker-punched at that.) "Anyway, I was already working with _The Sketch_ even before Edi--er, Lady Hexam started working there. Lady Mary knew me through Henry, and knew I worked with _The Sketch_ , and so, as I understand it, suggested me for the shoot when she pitched the idea to Lady Hexam." 

"Just so," Mary confirmed. "I assume Aramis was Charlie?" she added teasingly. 

"Rest assured, milady," Jefferson replied with a grin that quickly grew morose. "Stupid bastard." 

"Indeed," Henry agreed sadly. 

"Why's he a stupid bastard?" Jimmy asked. 

Thomas almost smacked Jimmy upside the head for asking such a thing when clearly Jefferson was upset and shouldn't be pressed ... but, well, Thomas wanted to hear the answer. He also hated himself a bit for being relieved at the lack of competition .... 

"'Cause he went and got himself killed racing cars," Jefferson replied, then downed his half-glass in one gulp. 

Okay, now Thomas hated himself nearly completely. 

"Oh! Oh, I'm so sorry ...." Jimmy apologised, wincing; Thomas and everyone else (save Jefferson) echoed him, while Talbot refilled Jefferson's glass. 

"Don't worry about it," Jefferson assured Jimmy. "It's been, what, a year since the accident?" he asked Henry, who shrugged. "And we were broken up for a couple of years before that." 

"Wait, so Charlie ... I mean, you really were _dating_?" Jimmy boggled. (The Bateses, as if they were one entity, shot Thomas a look that clearly meant they thought he should kick the younger man; Thomas was tempted, but he doubted Jimmy, bless him, would understand what Thomas meant by it.) 

"More or less," Jefferson confessed after a long moment. "Does that bother you?" Jefferson seemed perplexed and on-guard. (Had the Talbots told Jefferson about what went down between Thomas and Jimmy? Thomas only bristled for most of two seconds at the idea -- it occurred to him that Lady Mary knew what she was doing, if she indeed did that at all. She would only be trying to help her friend Jefferson -- and maybe Thomas, too ...?) 

"No, no!" Jimmy insisted. "I'm just ... well, surprised you would admit it to a room full of veritable strangers!" 

Jefferson relaxed. "Oh, _that_! Well, for one, my shade isn't _exactly_ a secret. See, it may be illegal for men to do ... _certain things_ together, but it's not illegal for one man to be in _love_ with another. And Charlie was a bisexual, so ... well, he flirted with any and everything in a skirt, and so everyone believed he was a womaniser, and that I simply had an unrequited crush. No one would ever believe Charlie would be anything but my friend, so everyone but my nearest and dearest assumed I was celibate. Basically, I was more or less free to be me -- the eccentric homosexual artist, whose sinful nature everyone was willing to overlook because my torment produced such beautiful photos." He chuckled, rolling his eyes. 

"And for another?" Baxter wondered. 

"Oh, right, I did say 'For one thing,' didn't I? Well, for another, Mrs Talbot here promised me a 'safe' evening, assuring me that everyone here would be more or less accepting of my shade." 

"I think it's safe to say 'more'," John promised. 

Thomas caught Jimmy giving him an apologetic look, doubtless because Jimmy _hadn't_ always been so accepting. 

"I can vouch for John's opinion," Thomas seconded, hoping Jimmy understood that Thomas had felt safe around him since they'd become friends, and all was forgiven. "I'd trust everyone here -- and Mrs Hughes and Andy, besides -- with my life." And hopefully Jefferson would get what Thomas meant; it was the closest Thomas had ever come to admitting verbally what he was to a stranger, much less in a room full of people! 

Jefferson beamed. "We're lucky, then -- and I'm grateful. These 'safe evenings' are a kindness from my closest friends, one that I have come to rely on. It's wonderful to have spaces where we can be ourselves, without judgement or fear of reprisal for the simple act of being one's authentic self. Thank you all." 

" _Every_ space should be so," Anna weighed in. 

"Well, let's start working to make it so, and raise our son to do the same. Maybe others are having similar conversations, right now," John replied, laying a hand over hers. (If Thomas had told his self from even just two years gone that he would come to feel such affection for the Bateses, he never would have believed it, but he was heartily glad that he now had reason to.) 

"Hear, hear to that," Tom agreed. "You know, Sybil told me that she considered herself bisexual." (Thomas boggled only for a moment; as free-spirited as she was, it only made sense that Sybil would be so open-hearted, too.) 

"Mm, I remember having a conversation with Sybil about that once," Mary revealed. "I told myself then and there that, if she took a female lover, I would do whatever she needed of me, be it helping her keep it secret, or standing beside her as she introduced the girl to our parents." 

"I'm glad to hear that," Tom replied. "I want a world where, if my daughter were to fall in love with a woman, she would be as free to celebrate her love in public as Sybil and I -- more, even. No more boundaries for love -- not class nor gender nor race. Nor religion, for that matter." 

"I'll drink to all that!" Baxter agreed, raising her glass. 

The others quickly followed. (Thomas was glad to note that Jimmy didn't hesitate. Like Jefferson, Thomas was grateful to feel safe here and now, as he'd never felt before, being himself. Even when he'd been with a lover, there had always been the fear that they might be caught -- or even the paranoid fear that his lover was really a policeman luring him into a trap ....) 

The clock chimed six o'clock. 

"Oh, goodness, I'd best get going! Don't want to be driving in the dark," Jefferson announced, getting to his feet. 

"Oh, you can stay here!" Lady Mary suggested. 

"I don't want to put you out ...." 

"It's no trouble -- I can make up a room," Baxter offered, rising. (Thomas could have kissed her.) 

"I'll help," Anna offered. (And her.) 

"So will I," Bates pipped up. (And him.) 

"Well, if you're sure, it would save me some time tomorrow -- home is an hour north of here, and the shoot I have tomorrow is an hour south. Oh, but I haven't got a change of clothes!" He glanced down, sniffing, and Thomas finally noticed that the man's jacket was bit dusty, even durt-smudged from the garage. Likely the man had worked up a sweat as well, bouncing around with his camera as he'd been doing. 

"I can lend you something to sleep in for tonight, and we'll get what you're wearing now washed," Thomas suggested. He'd been a valet -- laundry was nothing new to him. "Baxter, Anna, John, let's put him in the green room." 

The trio nodded and hurried off.

"Henry and I will do the dishes," Lady Mary decided. 

"Oh, no, milady, I can do that--" Thomas began. 

"That was an order, not an offer, Mr Barrow," Lady Mary smirked at him. (Yes, Thomas was nearly certain now that she'd planned everything ....) 

"And I'll take Jimmy home," Tom chimed in. "When I get back, I'll can spend some time with the children before it's time to tuck them in." 

"We'll see you up there," Lady Mary replied with a nod. "Good night, Mr Kent, and thank you!" 

"Thank _you_ , milady! Good night everyone. We're on for lunch next week, as usual, Thomas?" 

"We _better_ be!" Thomas teased. He had mixed feelings when his friend left the room -- he would have liked for Jimmy to stay longer, but he also wanted to get to know Jefferson better .... "Well, let's see what we can find for you," he suggested to the photographer, leading him to his room. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter ended up way longer than I expected, so I'm splitting it. The second half is fully *written*, but I have a project I need to do that will take the entire month (I'm working on a comics pitch for a grant -- wish me luck!!), so I figure I'll hold on to the second half for a few weeks, since I won't have a chance to work on the chapter after THAT until April the earliest.


	6. The Grand Tour

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thomas shows Jefferson around, getting to know the photographer in the process.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I originally forgot to mention in the previous chapter that Robert and Cora were out of town; I've since edited it, but if you read that chapter before the edit, now you know. XD
> 
> I'm taking a liberty and assuming the Crawleys would have one of the low-tech washing machines that were in production at the time, rather than having the servants takes hours and hours to do laundry by hand.
> 
> I also take the liberty of depicting the servants' baths as having hot water pipes, considering the real-life historical detail about Lady Almina, a Highclere resident who was inspiration for Cora, using her considerable money to do extensive renovations on the castle, making it one of the first castles with extensive indoor plumbing; why not have that plumbing include a _small_ hot water tank in the attic? I mean, think about the time servants must have wasted carting kettles up the stairs otherwise, or how ineffective soap is with cold water if they skipped the kettles, or how having servants shivering in cold water on cold nights would lower their immune system -- if nothing else, sick servants aren't terribly effective. And surely it would be a bragging point? "I'm so rich, I pamper my servants with hot baths! How wonderful it must be to work for me!" But if that's still too unbelievable, just tell yourself "It's only a fanfic!" ;)

Once upstairs, Thomas pulled an unopened pyjama set and unopened package of briefs out of his dresser. "I always like to be prepared," he explained. 

"For, ah ... _guests?_ " Jefferson asked. 

Thomas blushed. "Alas, no." (Oh, how Thomas wished it were true, though.) "Just for when my own things wear out." 

"Well, since these are new, let me reimburse you, so you can get a fresh pair to replace them!" Jefferson insisted. 

"I'm sure Lady Mary will insist I just take it out of the household budget -- you're a guest, after all!" Thomas pointed out. And honestly, Thomas kind of wished the man _would_ return these, so Thomas could wear them after him .... And then Thomas thought of something he _could_ wear after Jefferson! "I hope you don't mind just borrowing one of my robes, though -- it's clean," he added, pulling it out of a drawer. 

"Many thanks -- sorry to put you out!" 

"You're not, I promise!" Thomas wasn't brave enough to tell the man just how _glad_ he was that Jefferson was staying. "Now, there's a bath across the hall, or I can take you to the one near your guest room?" 

"The sooner I can get cleaned up, the better. I may be bad about keeping up with shaving or styling this mop on my head, but I'm a bit fastidious otherwise, I'm afraid," Jefferson confessed. 

Thomas dared a chuckle. "Creature of dichotomy, you?" (He bit his tongue to keep from saying he rather liked Jefferson's five-o'clock shadow and shaggy mane.) 

"Verily!" Jefferson agreed, grinning. 

Thomas led Jefferson to the bathroom, getting the water started, then getting a towel and washcloth out of a nearby linen closet. "You can just scootch whatever needs washing out into the hall, and I'll take care of it. I'll wait for you in the servants' hall when I'm done putting the wash on -- take your time." 

"Many thanks!" Jefferson went into the bathroom, leaving the door open a crack. (Thomas stood well out of the line of sight, to resist temptation, trying not to imagine that the crack was an invitation -- and trying not to picture the man stripping.) 

"Here you are!" Jefferson stepped halfway out, holding the clothes, neatly folded, to Thomas -- and offering the butler a peak at his naked torso. 

"Enjoy your bath. Feel free to used the Epsom salts," Thomas added, once he composed himself. 

"Ooh, I will, thanks!" Jefferson grinned. "You're spoiling me!" 

Thomas hoped he would have the chance to _really_ spoil him someday. 

~* * *~ 

Thomas wondered if Jefferson could hear the thud of his heart when he laid eyes on the man in his robe and pyjamas. He cleared his throat, then, "Was the bath all right?" 

"It was perfect," Jefferson assured him. "Now, I was wondering, would be inappropriate to ask a butler for a tour of the abbey? Unless you're busy ...." 

Thomas laughed. "Not at all -- it would be rude if I _didn't_ give you a tour, and besides which, we have time to kill while waiting on the washing machine. Anything in particular we should focus on, or any particular place we should start?" 

"Hmm ... How about ... you show me _your_ favourite things?" 

A thud again. Thomas wanted to believe Jefferson was flirting, but was afraid to hope. "Let's start with the main hall, then! I love the grandness of it ...." (It was one of the things he'd missed the most, going to live in a smaller house as he had. Thank God it had only been for a little while!) 

Once they reached the hall, Thomas found himself becoming a fountain of trivia about it -- dimensions and personal details of things that had happened in the room, some of which he'd even personally witnessed. He pointed out pieces of art that he liked -- and critiqued some he did not. He found Jefferson to be fairly knowledgeable about art, and of similar taste -- though he did, in a few cases, also give Thomas a new respect for the pieces he didn't care for. And Thomas couldn't resist showing his new bosom companion the clock he'd repaired for the Crawleys, now prominently displayed. 

"You _fixed_ it?" Jefferson sounded amazed, not disbelieving. "Are _most_ butlers also clockworkers?" 

Thomas chuckled, trying not to let the other man's awe go to his head. "No, it's just that my _father_ was a clockworker -- _he_ taught me." 

"And you didn't stay on with him?" Looking puzzled at first, Jefferson's eyes suddenly went wide. "Oh. Oh, Thomas ... he reacted _that badly_ to discovering your shade?" 

So there it was: confirmation that Jefferson knew. "He did." The relief in knowing that Jefferson knew seemed to override the usual pain that came with thinking of his father. "What about you -- do _your_ parents know?" 

"My mother does -- my father died when I was ten or so. Mother says she always knew, since I was about five or six, but she and Father never talked about it, so she doesn't know if he did -- or how he would have felt. She's been supportive, though, as have my brothers and sisters. I mean, I'm the youngest of a family of liberal, eccentric, artistic aristos, so it's not like anyone was bothered much about what I did with my life -- it's not likely I'd ever inherit the estate ...." 

"That must have been wonderful," Thomas mused wistfully. 

"It was and it wasn't -- I know I've been luckier than most of our shade, and I'll be forever grateful as far as my family accepting me goes, but ... well, let's just say a home full of drama students is bound to _be full of drama_ ," Jefferson chuckled. 

"Did _you_ study drama?" 

Jefferson nodded. "Before long, though, I realised I preferred watching rather than being in the spotlight. Since they insisted I still participate _somehow_ , I began photographing them, so they could see themselves -- which they thankfully came to value more than having me on stage with them." 

_A shame,_ Thomas thought to himself -- Jefferson being the photographer meant he was never the subject. Thomas would have bet a month's salary that the camera would _love_ the man .... Shaking the thoughts away, Thomas shared, " _I_ once thought I would be a professional cricket player." 

Jefferson nodded, looking Thomas up and down appreciatively. (Thomas could feel his gaze like a caress, and stifled a delicious shiver.) "I could see it -- you seem quite fit! I'd, ah ... love to see you play!" The man bit his lip provocatively. 

Thomas smiled bashfully, feeling his cheeks burn, and averted his eyes. "Well, we do have a match, the Abbey versus the Village, at the end of summer ...." 

"It's a date!" Jefferson declared. (Thomas never imagined that feeling sucker-punched could be a _happy_ feeling!) "Oh, but that's so far off!" (The man was even pretty when pouting! That was dangerous ....) 

"Well, I try do practice a couple mornings every week -- His Lordship is quite insistent on it, really," Thomas mentioned, daring to hold on to hope that something was blossoming with Jefferson, and that they might get more time together to nurture it. "When do you have to leave?" 

"Ten-ish?" 

"How do you feel about Seven for breakfast with Talbot an Lady May, and Eight for practise? That'd leave you an hour to dress." 

Jefferson nodded, thoughtfully. Then, "Can I break my fast with _you_?" 

Thomas was elated and then disappointed in the span of a heartbeat. "I generally eat at _Six_ ...." he winced. 

"Ooooooh," Jefferson cringed, collapsing against the wall, sinking a little. (In keeping with his dramatical upbringing, Thomas reckoned -- it was adorable!) Jefferson rebounded quickly, though. "All right. I think you're worth it." 

Thomas was sure he was red as a cherry by now. "I hope I don't end up disappointing you!" he half-laughed. 

"No chance of that in the slightest," Jefferson assured him, all flirtation gone, deadly earnestness in its place. "You could be the worst cricket player ever, and I would consider it time well-spent. I want to get to know you, Thomas -- if that's okay?" Suddenly, the man seemed uncertain, and Thomas wanted nothing more than to cup his face, reassure him .... 

"It's _more_ than okay," Thomas replied as forcefully as he could, hoping his words could comfort when he didn't dare offer his hands. "I want that too -- very much. I just ...." 

"I know. You can't do anything here -- I wouldn't ask you to," Jefferson promised. 

"Thank you," Thomas breathed, relieved. 

Jefferson nodded again. "I hope you don't mind, but ... Mary told me about what happened with Jimmy." 

Thomas wasn't sure what to feel about that -- it was humiliating to think of Jefferson knowing, but then again, if Jefferson was interested _anyway_ , then it was better than him finding out later! Then again, how _accurate_ was she ...? "What exactly did she tell you?" 

Jefferson shrugged. "That you had gone into his room and kissed him like Sleeping Beauty, but things didn't go happily ever after when he woke up," he replied sympathetically, somehow taking the edge off of the humiliation. "She thought I should know that, since you were nearly sacked, you might be very cautious and not keen on doing anything in the house -- she wanted to make sure I would respect that. She also wanted me to tell you that, so long as you're sure all the staff who might have a problem with our shade are gone for the night, and we strip the sheets if necessary, and you're out of my room before dawn, then ... while the cats are away, we mice can play." (As Thomas boggled at him, it was Jefferson's turn to blush; as the blood rushed to the man's face, Thomas felt his own rush ... _elsewhere_.) "But I don't expect it anytime soon -- I mean, we've only just met, and I'm not interested in a fling! She just wanted to make sure we knew that such was an option, you know?" 

Speechless, Thomas nodded, the words "not interested in a fling" ringing in his ears. Did he dare hope he could have someone to love for the rest of his life, like Bates or His Lordship had? Someone who might love him _back_? "What prompted her to tell you about me?" he suddenly wondered. "I mean ... a _butler_?" Even with her being friends with Branson, he had a hard time picturing her -- or _any_ aristo -- playing matchmaker across the classes! 

Jefferson ducked his head. "I, uh ...." He cleared hs throat. "I have a confession to make." (Thomas braced himself for the breaking of his heart -- he'd gotten good at that.) "See, I saw you at Henry and Mary's wedding reception, and ... well, I was smitten, so I asked about you. And she started telling me, but we got interrupted, and I had a shoot that evening that I couldn't reschedule, so I had to leave soon after. I didn't see her again until she invited me to lunch with Lady Hexam, to discuss today's shoot; after we finished, she asked if I was still interested in knowing more about you. As for you being a butler, if we'd have to hide our relationship anyway, why should I care what class you are? Wait, does it bother you that I'm gentry?" He looked worried, not affronted. 

"No, so long as you don't think I'm a gold-digger!" Thomas laughed nervously. (Once upon a time, there was That Duke, after all ....) 

"Deal!" Jefferson grinned. "And, ah ... let's just say that, if you should try to steal a kiss, I should be happy to _let_ you -- and give you one in return," Jefferson added, flirtatiousness returned at full steam. (Thomas wasn't sure he could resist the temptation much longer ....) "Anyway, if things go well between us -- and I have a strong feeling they will," he winked "--we'll figure something out that's not quite so dependent upon us being clandestine. Henry and Mary have already said they'd help." 

"Oh!" Thomas was deeply touched -- a little overwhelmed, even -- by his employers' apparent desire to play matchmakers, especially for a pair of homosexuals, but ... "I wouldn't want to put them at risk for scandal ...." 

"I wouldn't either!" Jefferson hurriedly agreed. "But let's at least hear any _ideas_ they have. Mary strikes me as the type to think outside the box." 

"That she does," Thomas chuckled. The very fact that she was trying to help him, a servant (never mind his inclinations), at all was proof enough of that. 

The clock chimed Seven, as if to remind them that time was a-wasting. 

"The laundry should be done by now," Thomas realised. "I better get them on the rack, or they won't be dry by morning! Let me show you to your room, first." 

"Oh, no, let me come with you and help with the laundry!" Jefferson insisted. 

"It's okay -- there's not much there to deal with," Thomas pointed out. 

"Yeah, but ... I feel bad, you having to take care of it. We're friends; you're not my employee!" 

Thomas smiled at the fact that Jefferson declared them friends so readily. When had Thomas _ever_ made a friend so quickly? "I'm not sure the two are mutually exclusive, but in any case, you _are_ still Talbot and Lady Mary's guest, and looking after their guests is technically my job!" 

Jefferson sighed heavily, the quickly brightened. "Well, let's compromise -- I can at least keep you _company_! Besides, I want to see this washing machine -- you can tell me how it works!" 

And Thomas did just that, loving how enthusiastic Jefferson was, the man hanging on his every word and asking questions with an eagerness matched only by Master George and Miss Sybbie. 

"Shall we see how many more rooms we can look over before calling it a night?" Thomas asked when the last article of clothing was dealt with. 

"Depends -- how much insight will they give me regarding one Thomas Barrow?" 

"Well, you did ask me to show you what meant the most to me -- that's pretty much the whole house. It's the representation of my life's work -- I take great pride in being part of maintaining it." He stroked the clock fondly. "It nearly killed me to leave," he added softly. 

"Leave?" Jefferson cocked his head in a way that reminded Thomas endearingly of Tiaa. 

Thomas hesitated, wondering how much to reveal. If they were going to be intimate eventually, Jefferson would see the scars. Was it better to just get it out in the open now? Thomas decided to wade into the waters slowly, and judge the temperature. "It's no longer considered fashionable nor economical to have a large staff, so the Crawleys more or less let me go. Then, when I was here for Lady Hexam's wedding--" 

"Wait, wait -- they let you go ... but then invited you to a _wedding?_ " 

Thomas laughed. "It does sound crazy when you put it like that! Lady Edith wasn't actually living here anymore when I'd had to leave, but I ... well, I'd saved her life once, so ...." 

"Crikey! You'd think that would have earned you enough goodwill to keep you on in the _first_ place!" 

Thomas appreciated that the man seemed so outraged on his behalf, but could't help but feel he didn't deserve it. "Well, let's just say I haven't always been the nicest of people -- I've given them plenty of reason to want to be rid of me." ( _Lying, stealing, plotting, trying to pin my misdeeds on others ...._ But Thomas couldn't bring himself to say that aloud.) "Besides, they really didn't need an under-butler, and Carson, the butler at the time, had been with them forever, so of course he had seniority. But if it makes you feel better, apparently Lady Mary had words with His Lordship on my behalf!" he revealed with a chuckle, wishing he could have seen that in person. 

"It does, actually!" Jefferson laughed. "I'm more than a little shocked he didn't listen to her!" 

"You and me both! At any rate, Carson was having problems with his hands -- apparently it'd been happening for a while, and getting worse, so Lady Mary suggested he retire and they hire me back. It was quite the relief, let me tell you! I did _not_ much care for where I'd ended up!" 

"Where _did_ you end up?" 

"With the Stiles family." 

"Oh, dear God in Heaven, you poor thing!" Jefferson winced. "Lord Stiles was a friend of my father's -- and more intolerably dull and tedious to deal with than trying to eat a plain, stale bit of bread!" 

Thomas barked a laugh. "That he is! And his library was just as bad!" 

"And how is _Downton's_ library?" 

"Well, let me show you!" 

When they arrived, Tiaa greeted them, whining piteously. 

"Well, hello, there! Aren't you a sweetheart?" Jefferson cooed, immediately getting down on his knees beside her and ruffling her fur. (Thomas was torn between fondness towards Jefferson for his adorable reaction to the dog, and jealousy towards the animal, that she should be petted so by the man. It definitely didn't help to see the man on his knees, so near a certain area of the butler's body that would enjoy a certain kind of attention from someone's mouth ....) 

"This is Tiaa," Thomas introduced the puppy -- who promptly lay on her back, displaying her belly, clearly in hopes of tummy rubs. "It occurs to me that she ought to be walked now -- His Lordship would normally do so, but he's not here. Do you mind if we ...?" 

"I would never say no to a puppy!" Jefferson assured him. "What do you say, Miss Tiaa? Do you want walkies?" Jefferson asked, picking up the puppy when she leapt up and began licking him in reply. 

Thomas fetched Tiaa's lead from a hook near His Lordship's desk, and slipped it around the pup's neck. 

"Did you have a dog when you were a kid?" Jefferson asked as he set the pup down. 

"One," Thomas confirmed as he led Tiaa and Jefferson to the door. "Shadow was a mix between a black Labrador and an Irish setter -- I've never seen a more beautiful dog! We got her when I was five and she was three -- her owner had died. She was my best friend from day one. But she died just a couple days before I turned 13 -- she had thyroid trouble, and the summer was unbearably hot. Vet said it was heat exhaustion. Broke my heart, so I never got another." Thomas felt tears rising, and hurriedly blinked them away. "You?" 

"Oh, yeah -- all my life, we've had at least two, and as many as five. Currently, we've three. And every dog we've had has been a mutt." 

"Mutt?" Like Shadow. "Not purebred?" 

"Never understood the appeal of purebreds, honestly. Get a dog that's inbred to the point of serious health problems, from a place where the dogs are raised and sold like crops, and kept in kennels like cars in a garage? Dogs that, as pups, are treated like commodities, rather than like living beings? Why? Just because the poor dog was 'lucky' enough to be born with a pedigree? And so the person who breeds them gets money, and I presumably get ... some nebulous sort of prestige? I'd rather open my home and heart to a homeless dog, as an adopted member of my family, and let it live in my home, on my couch, even in my bed, than buy one as if it were an expensive painting to put on display for guests ...." 

"You take in strays?" Thomas was delighted by the idea of an aristo welcoming in dogs from the street! 

Jefferson nodded. "To be honest -- and thankfully His Lordship's not here to hear this -- I rather feel like too many people use purebreds as some sort of weird validation of their superiority. For myself, I can't help that I was born gentry, but I'd like to think my life would have value even if I wasn't. It's why I insist on having a job and living off what I make -- though I readily admit that, in my work, I've taken advantage of the connections my pedigree have afforded me, so I concede I'm a bit of a hypocrite." 

"I wouldn't fault you for that. I mean, I was born with a natural advantage in sports, and I've no doubt that my abilities as a cricket player were part of why His Lordship kept me on," Thomas mused. "We all make use of what we were born to. The important thing is that you aren't looking down at those who weren't born with the same advantages, but instead use your advantages to help the less fortunate -- like those strays. I assume your family does charity fundraising, like the Crawleys?" 

"Indeed," Jefferson confirmed. 

"And I know the Crawleys employee many people -- maybe not so much in the house anymore, but still in the village, and they do what they can to help local businesses. So long as nobles aren't hoarding their wealth, and do their best by the people of their communities, I don't see having wealth or a pedigree as evil, per se." Maybe he did once, but not anymore. "Jobs and leadership have to be found _somewhere_. I might have gone into clockworking as an apprentice and eventually and opened a shop, but not everyone has an ability that would keep them self-sufficient, or sell the skills they have -- they need an employer, someone with money enough to support both themselves and people working for them." 

He'd certainly heard His Lordship and Lady Mary each talk about their duty to the people before, and had seen their kindness -- and that of Her Ladyship, Lady Sybil, and Lady Hexam -- first hand. Maybe it wasn't fair that life had provided them with every luxury via an accident of birth, but after years of listening in on their conversations, he had come to see how they had their own tasks to perform -- it was part of why they had servants to handle the day-to-day, so they could focus on the larger picture -- and that their wealth was a necessary tool for them to act on the people's behalf. If they fell, the entire village could fall with them! 

Thomas was determined to make sure that didn't happen. 

"I appreciate you being willing to give me and my ilk the benefit of the doubt -- I shall endeavour to be worthy," Jefferson promised. 

"I have faith that you will be," Thomas replied, almost surprised to find he did. How had this man snuck into his heart so quickly? 

Tiaa yapped at them then, using the bark Thomas had come to understand meant she wanted back inside. "Yes, milady," Thomas humoured her; the men followed the canine all the way back into the library. 

Besides petting Tiaa, they spent another hour or so amongst the books, sharing mutual love over many of them, and singing the praises of ones the other hadn't yet read. Save for Baxter, and now Anna, Thomas had rarely found someone who both shared his love of reading, especially fiction, _and_ was willing to _talk_ with him about the books! He was having the time of his life ... so of course his beloved clocks had to spoil it by pointing out that the hour was growing late (at least, it was if they were getting up at Five-Thirty). 

"I'd best show you to your room. Sorry we didn't get very far!" Thomas apologised, heading for the door.

"That's quite all right -- I'm sure I'll be back often, so you can show me a little at a time!" Jefferson replied cheerfully. 

Thomas suspected the man meant Thomas could show more of himself, rather than the house -- and that Jefferson would be patient, accepting however much Thomas was comfortable enough to divulge. "I'd like that," Thomas said softly, smiling shyly. 

"Good!" Jefferson beamed. (Thomas wished he had Jefferson's camera, so he could capture that smile and keep it with him always ....) 

As Thomas led the man up the main stair, Jefferson remarked, "I don't suppose His Lordship would let me photograph the house? For posterity?" 

The gears in the butler's head began turning at top speed. "Sometimes we run tours through, and people take pictures, so I don't see why not. In fact ... what if you did a _book_? Something people might buy as a souvenir?" 

"Oh! I've always wanted to do something like that!" Jefferson breathed. "Perhaps Lady Hexam could publish it!" 

"Shall I mention it to Lady Mary?" 

"Good idea -- better to have her butter up His Lordship about it, make sure he agrees to it, before bothering Lady Hexam," Jefferson replied. 

"Just so," Thomas agreed, trying to contain his excitement. If anyone could talk His Lordship into such an endeavour, it would be Lady Mary -- especially if she enlisted Lady Cora and Branson! And if they managed it, Jefferson would be around for _days_ \-- maybe even _weeks_ .... 

"Ah, here we are," Thomas announced, opening by the door to the guestroom that Baxter and the Bateses had prepared, his elation plummeting as he realised they would have to say goodnight now. _You don't **have** to -- Lady Mary basically said as much ...._ Thomas firmly smothered the temptation -- he wouldn't take any risk of losing what he'd just found! 

"Thank you, Thomas -- for everything," Jefferson said. Then, "Can ... can I kiss your cheek goodnight?" 

Thomas could only nod. 

Jefferson cupped the butler's face, softly kissing the other cheek, even just that light contact of lips burning Thomas pleasantly. "Good night, Thomas." Jefferson's hand lingered a moment longer as he passed into the room, trailing along the butler's jaw. 

Thomas fought back a moan. "Good night, Jefferson," Thomas barely managed in return, desperately missing his younger, more daring days as he closed the door and headed for his own room. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shadow is based on a dog I once had.
> 
> The next chapter is more than half written, but I'd like to get the chapter AFTER that half-written before I post it. Hopefully it won't be more than a couple of weeks, but I have work to do. I need a clone of me. Or a time-turner.


	7. Up and at 'Em

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thomas and Jefferson have their cricket practice -- but not before an encounter with Patmore.

It took a solid minute for Thomas to work up the nerve to knock on Jefferson's door the next morning. What if, after sleeping on it, Jefferson was having second thoughts about Thomas? What if getting woken up so early made him cranky? But in the end, Thomas decided to take the man at his word, and rapped his knuckles gently against the door. 

"Coming," he heard a sleepy reply -- then saw the sunrise early, when Jefferson opened the door with a beaming smile. "What a beautiful morning!" Jefferson greeted, still in his pyjamas and dressing robe, hair tousled in such a way that only made him even more devastatingly attractive. 

"It is indeed," Thomas agreed with a smile he hoped was equally bright. 

They quickly made their way to the kitchen, giggling like schoolboys as they thundered down the nearby servants' stair. Thomas stopped short just inside the kitchen, though, poor Jefferson colliding with him a split-second later. 

" _Mrs Patmore?_ " Thomas boggled when he'd recovered. 

The woman was stirring the contents of a pot as she gave Thomas a funny look. "Who's this you've brought into my kitchen?" she asked warily. 

"Begging your pardon, missus -- I'm Jefferson Buchanan," Jefferson replied with a flourished bow. 

"He's a guest of Lady Mary and Mr Talbot," Thomas quickly explained when, as expected, Patmore seemed unmoved by Jefferson's charm. 

"Then why's he in the kitchen instead of the dining room?" Patmore grouched, a hand on her hip as she continued to absently stir her pot. 

"I wanted to help Mr Barrow with his cricket practice, which in turn meant getting up early," Jefferson explained. 

Her narrowed eyes told Thomas she thought there might be more to it -- and that she didn't exactly approve. Well, he supposed she was kind of right about there being more to it, but at the same time, they hadn't actually _done_ anything! Still, her friendship had been hard-won, so he decided, for the peace of the house, it was better to butter her up than put her in her place, as the old Thomas -- the _friendless_ Thomas -- would have done. 

"I was just coming down to get that lovely oatmeal you'd left us -- it's really excellent, even cold," he quickly added to Jefferson. "We'll only be a moment, and we'll clean up after," he assured her. 

"You mean _this_ oatmeal?" Patmore asked, holding up the spoon. "You were going to give _this_ to a guest? _Cold?_ " 

"I'm a simple man of simple tastes, really, missus," Jefferson insisted. "I like cold oatmeal -- and besides which, we only have so much time to play, before I have to shower and change." 

"And it really is quite fine -- I have it cold most mornings," Thomas pointed out. 

After a long moment, Patmore sighed. "Well, you're having it hot today, like it or not. Grab a pair of bowls and go sit in the servants' hall, I guess." 

Thomas scrambled to obey. He took the seat next to the end of the table, offering his usual spot, at the head, up to Jefferson. To his astonishment (and slight annoyance), Patmore sat across from Thomas, dishing oatmeal out to the two men before attacking the remains of the pot herself. The men thanked her, then ate in silence for a few minutes, sharing furtive glances. 

"So, what brings you here this morning?" Thomas finally asked her. "I thought you'd be at your B&B." Had _relied_ on the fact, even. 

"Well, His Lordship and Her Ladyship are coming home today, so the children asked if I could come help them bake a pie as a 'welcome home' present. If that's all right?" she added, in her way that told him he'd best not have a problem with it. 

"Oh, certainly! That sounds lovely," he assured her. "I was just surprised, is all." 

"Anyway," she went on, "since I was already coming, I thought I'd get here a bit earlier, save you the trouble of heating up your food, and then prepare a few other things." 

"Oh!" Now he felt bad for feeling grumpy about her unexpected presence, knowing she'd meant to do him a favour. "That's quite kind of you, Mrs Patmore -- thank you!" 

"Yes, many thanks!" Jefferson echoed. 

She seemed a little surprised at the show of gratitude from Thomas (not that Thomas blamed her -- he had nearly a decade of bad impressions to undo). "We'll, I suppose you're welcome. Now finish eating and go play your game; _I'll_ handle the dishes." 

Jefferson didn't obey immediately, though. "So, you run a bed and breakfast? If even simple oatmeal tastes this good by your hand, you _must_ give me the address!" 

Patmore was clearly on to the photographer, but amused nonetheless. "I'm sure Mr Barrow can write it down for you," she replied, taking up her pot and their bowls and heading back into the kitchen. 

... Had Patmore just given them her _approval?_ "It must be very cold in hell today," Thomas whispered to himself as he got to his feet. Jefferson snorted cutely. 

The phone rang before they got very far, Thomas hurrying to answer it in his office. It was Bradley, who usually met him out in the yard for practice on Wednesday mornings; the boy's mother was sick with a bad cold, so he was staying him to watch over his sister. (Thomas trusted the lad was telling the truth.) 

"Well, so much for that. I can practise bowling, at least, but I can't practise bating without a bowler!" 

"I could give it a go!" Jefferson offered. "We _did_ tell Patmore I would be _helping_ you, after all, not just watching! But I can't promise I'll be much of a challenge ...." 

"I'm sure you'll do fine, but even if you don't, any help at all is better than _none_ ," Thomas replied. 

They quickly learned, though, that Jefferson was right -- he barely got the ball within range. 

"I'll come closer," Jefferson suggested. 

"I might hit you, then," Thomas worried. "May I?" He asked, walking forward with his hand out. 

"Please!" Jefferson replied, handing the ball over as if it were about to explode like a grenade. 

Thomas tried demonstrating a few times, but Jefferson really was hopeless. 

"Maybe if you move my hands, like you might when teaching a child?" Jefferson suggested, holding up the ball. 

As Thomas came up behind Jefferson, taking the photographer's hand in his, he felt his heart thud in his chest -- and not in a good way. Their current situation reminded Thomas of when he'd shown Jimmy how to wind the clocks -- and he knew now that that hadn't been a welcome act. _You're being ridiculous -- he's **asking** you to do this, and he's already told you, verbally, that he's interested. Get back in the damn saddle._ "This all right?" he asked. 

"Perfect," Jefferson purred, backing against Thomas, their bodies fitting together ... well, perfectly. 

Thomas found himself very glad to be wearing a box just then, even as the pad was suddenly very constricting. 

It was quickly apparent that Jefferson had been putting on something of an act -- not that he was a _great_ bowler, but he was clearly better than he'd let on, and so hadn't really needed any instruction. Just as clearly, Jefferson was obviously a champion at playing the lavender game; others might have batted an eye at seeing them, but they would have to admit to seeing lewdness in what _could_ be a legitimate attempt to teach, and it was unlikely anyone would dare make an accusation under such circumstances (especially if the situation involved the gentry). It would be too like accusing the typical, everyday actions of a valet as perverted -- and that was a slope that no one was willing to go down. 

Still, much as Thomas would have liked to hold on longer (and tighter, and do more), he didn't push his luck. Even so, he found himself giving his new friend a similarly intimate lesson in batting .... 

"Oh good, we didn't miss you!" came Lady Mary's voice a short while later; Thomas turned to find her and Talbot approaching. "When we brought the children down to make pies, Mrs Patmore told us you were playing cricket with Mr Barrow. I must say, I'm a little disappointed it was the truth," she added in a stage whisper with a wink. Thomas suspected that, more than teasing, she was actually wanting to make sure they understood that she was okay with the idea of her butler and her friend being ... _more than friendly_ with each other. 

Though he wasn't really religious, Thomas had thanked God (or whomever) every morning since leaving the Stiles' house that he'd been allowed to come back to Downton. And he thanked God again, just now, just in case -- there was no such thing as too much gratitude, he'd found. 

"I'm glad you found us!" Jefferson told her cheerfully. "Thomas and I came up with something last night that I think you'll love!" And so Jefferson told her and Talbot about the photography book idea. 

"That's a _brilliant_ idea!" Talbot enthused. 

"It certainly is," Lady Mary agreed in her more laid-back way (Thomas was relatively sure she was impressed). "But I know Papa -- he already doesn't like having these tours, but at least they're only momentary. I have a feeling he'll dig his heels in at the idea of people being able to look at his home whenever they like." She pursed her lips, then brightened. "Ah, but if the _marchioness_ thinks it's a good idea .... Excuse me, boys, but I've a phone call to make." And just like that, she sped off, calling over her shoulder, "I expect you to stop for dinner on your way back, Jefferson!" 

"She _does_ know I'm going to be away a few _days_ , yes?" Jefferson wondered. "I have other shoots in Brighton and South Hampton after the one today -- I'm staying at my family's London flat through Saturday night." 

"I better make sure, in case that affects her plan. In any case, please do come by for dinner when you can, and thanks again for the photos," Talbot replied, clapping Jefferson on the back before hurrying after his wife. 

Jefferson chuckled fondly as they watched the pair return to the house. "Well, I supposed I'd best shower and change," he then sighed. 

Thomas resisted the urge to ask him not to. The man had a career of his own, and just as he wouldn't jeopardise the butler's job, so too Thomas wouldn't risk the photographer's by asking the man to blow off a shoot. But surely he would be back fairly soon, given Talbot and Lady Mary's insistence. In fact .... "It's Baxter's birthday Sunday -- think you could make it to tea that afternoon?" Thomas asked as they made their own way back to the house, then held his breath, horrified that he'd just invited a member of the gentry to a servant's birthday part. 

"I'd love to!" Jefferson enthused. "She seems a sweet, kind soul. Maybe I could take pictures of the occasion! Unless you think it'd make her uncomfortable?" 

"I'm sure I could feel her out on the subject," Thomas assured him, resisting the urge to skip about, like a child, in victory celebration. 

They walked in amiable silence for a few moments. Then, "Say, would it be a faux pas to ask you to be my valet for a moment?" Jefferson asked, pronouncing valet like the French did. 

"Only if you say 'valeT' as 'valaY' with His Lordship in earshot," Thomas snickered. 

"Do forgive me -- my grandmother is French, and I never actually had a va-leT before! I was just thinking I would very much like to try it," Jefferson replied with a waggle of his brow. 

Thomas hoped that anyone who might see his blush would chalk it up to too much sun. "Well, with a smaller staff, our roles are, ah ... _broadening_ in scope. With that in mind, since I don't know where Bates or Andy are this very second, I'm sure His Lordship would wish me to see to your every comfort, you being a guest and all. Even if you _do_ speak French. By the by, _I_ learned a bit of French, during the war ...." 

"Did you, now?" Jefferson purred. "I'm not sure I believe you -- shall I test you while you strip me out of these filthy clothes?" 

Even knowing perfectly well that there was no one in earshot, and that technically there was nothing untoward in what Jefferson said, Thomas still found himself glancing about nervously. 

Jefferson picked up on it, it seemed. "Oh, do forgive me, Thomas -- I don't mean to push!" 

"No, no, I am ..." Thomas struggled for a way to code what he wanted to say, "... entirely committed to meeting all your needs, I promise!" 

"Nevertheless, I'll let _you_ set our pace," Jefferson insisted. 

"Then I'll warn you that I can actually be rather fast in certain arenas," Thomas warned. 

"I'm not worried either way," Jefferson assured him with a wry smile. 

But when the time came, up in Jefferson's room, about to help the man undress, Thomas found himself suddenly arriving at a dead stop. 

"Thomas? You don't have to do anything -- not even just be a valet -- if you don't want to," Jefferson soothed. 

Thomas plopped down on the bed with a sigh. "I'm being ridiculous. The incident with Jimmy was ages ago, and he got over it. And the thing with Pamook was a _lifetime_ ago ...." 

Jefferson gently settled beside him and laid a comforting hand over his. "Pamook?" 

"He was a guest. I thought he was flirting with me, but I read it all wrong, and he blackmailed me--" Thomas felt like he'd been punched in the gut as the memory returned. "Oh, god!" He leapt to his feet, running a nervous hand through his hair as he began to pace.

"Thomas?" 

"He ... he had me take him to the hall where Lady Mary's room was!" 

Eyes opening wide, Jefferson's mouth made what would have seemed a comical "O" in other circumstances. "Do you think he ...?" 

"I don't know, but he was found dead the next morning! What if ...." 

Jefferson dropped his voice to a whisper. "Do you think she ...?" 

Thomas bit his finger in thought. "There were no signs of foul play, no wounds. His death was ruled a heart attack. So unless she had some undetectable poison stashed in her room, no. I'm more worried that he did something against her will." _And mortified that it didn't occur to me that she might not **want** him in her room, just because **I** had wanted to be with him, and I was too scared of being outed to think of anyone but myself._ "I have to go confess," Thomas decided. He owed her that honesty. 

Jefferson grabbed his arm. "Thomas, think about this for a moment. If she _was_ raped, do you think she'd want to be reminded? Apologising under these circumstances would be about making _yourself_ feel better, not her." 

Thomas mulled that over. "But I betrayed her," he whispered. "She should be free to make an informed decision as to whether or not to keep me around ...." 

"Under other circumstances, I might agree, but in this instance, I can't see it doing anything but make things worse for her. If she was raped, this revelation could hurt her ability to trust _anyone_. If she wasn't, she might consider you to have done her a favour, giving her a chance to be with Pamook that she wouldn't have otherwise had. Besides which, who would be more devoted to her family now than you? An entirely new butler would have far less reason to be loyal. Telling her now would fix nothing -- and could ruin everything. I think henceforth dedicating your life to protecting her and hers would be a far better way for you to atone." 

"Don't forget the guilt," Thomas added wryly. If he didn't confess, was it really about protecting Lady Mary, or was it about him protecting himself? For Lady Mary would surely fire him if she knew. 

"I would call that part of the price, yes. But if it makes you feel better about it, know that, if you did decide to tell her, I would take you in," Jefferson revealed, squeezing his hand in emphasis. "So if you _don't_ tell her, fear of losing your job isn't a factor, so it wouldn't be out of selfishness. It will be because you decide it's better for _her_ not to." 

Well, he had a point. And to be honest, moving in with Jefferson held a lot of appeal. But then again, Thomas didn't want to lose Downton or the family -- especially if Lady Mary ended up _hating_ him. So Jefferson's plan had a hitch in that there were still selfish reasons for Thomas to keep his secret. 

Once again, Jefferson seemed to read his mind. "Just ... think on it a bit. If you decide not to confess, you can always change your mind down the road, but once you _do_ confess, you can't undo it." 

Another good point; Thomas nodded. 

"Either way, I'm here for you," Jefferson added, cupping Thomas by the cheek. 

Thomas laid his hand over Jefferson's, leaning into the touch, hardly able to believe this moment was real: that even knowing such secrets, this man cared about him. Jefferson brushed his lip with a thumb, and Thomas kissed it. A moment later, Jefferson's lips replaced the thumb, starting chastely, but swiftly diving deeper. 

"Damn that shoot," Jefferson growled when they came up for air. 

"It's just as well," Thomas sighed. He'd been so touch-starved for so long, and all their kiss did was stoke his hunger, not sate it. "The maids will be here soon enough." 

It was Jefferson's turn to sigh. "In that case, I should dress myself, or I won't be able to _control_ myself," he mused, rising. 

"I fear the same is true of me," Thomas commiserated, getting up and heading (albeit reluctantly) for the door. 

"On the upside, absence make the heart grow fonder!" 

"Or forgetful," Thomas pointed out with a grumble. 

"Well, I haven't forgotten you all these months since I first saw you, so no worries there!" Jefferson countered. "Oh, wait -- did you mean you'd forget _me?_ " 

"No chance of that." Thomas smiled fondly, giving in to the tugging on his heart strings. Even if this went badly, even just one more happy moment like this would be worth it -- whereas nothing could make up for what he would miss if he _didn't_ let himself take the leap. 

"One more for the road, then?" Jefferson asked, hopeful. 

Without the slightest hesitation, Thomas obliged, understanding then that he would never be able to deny this man anything. 

"Way to ace that French exam," Jefferson grinned when they came up for air, the man looking thoroughly ravished. 

"I look forward to the next exam, Professor," Thomas returned, backing through the door, committing a newly-cherished face to memory, closing the door more slowly than a glacier moved. He smoothed his clothes and hair as he walked down the hall, feeling like he needed to carry the antique anchor from the smoking room around, to keep from flying away. 

And then he passed Lady Mary on his way to his office, and found that guilt was a pretty good anchor itself. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so, so sorry it's taken this long to get this chapter up! Life keeps getting away from me -- and now you have to share me with the Shades Alvarez fandom, I'm afraid! Also, I have another convention to prep for. Hopefully you won't have to wait until September for the next chapter ....


	8. The Birthday Party

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It may be Baxter's birthday, but she's not the only one getting surprised.

Mary suspected that this was the first time in her and Edith's life that they were truly working together. Well, aside maybe from arranging the photoshoot, but that was between them, not the pair of them ganging up on Papa. She almost felt sorry for him. And she wished they'd put their differences aside much sooner. 

"Why on earth would anyone want to see pictures of our possessions?" their father grumbled. 

"Why does _anyone_ look at books or art, or go to museums?" Edith countered. Hopefully Papa would pick up on the subtle reference to his many books on Egyptian culture. 

"People go to museums to see _history_ , not interior decorating!" 

"Many paintings and statues were pretty much interior decorating in the eras they was _made_ in," Mary sallied. "And some of _our_ interior decorating just happens to be done with priceless works of art -- pieces of _history_. The two ideas aren't mutually exclusive." She saw Thomas, behind her father, making a valiant effort to keep a straight face, but she also saw the twinkle in the butler's eye, and rewarded him with a wink while Papa poked at his soup. 

"Besides which, even if it _was_ just interior decorating, articles on decor do fabulously in _The Sketch_ ," Edith commented. Then Edith seemed struck by a thought -- when, in actuality, their entire conversation had been carefully orchestrated, _especially_ this moment. Edith's acting was impressive. "Say, that's an idea! We could sort of ... test the waters, with a smaller shoot that could run in my magazine!" 

"Oh! And we could use that photographer you sent to us for the car article -- he was ever so good!" Mary weighed in. Papa didn't need to know that Mary had already known Jefferson long before the shoot. 

Behind Papa, Thomas turned a fascinating shade of pink, the corners of his lips clearly trying to tug the rest of his mouth into a smile. (She half hoped the corners would succeed -- never mind the archaic rule that said servants were meant to be like furniture: always silent, never having an opinion, never moving unless they were doing what they were intended to, and beneath notice unless one was showing them off. Friends, Mary had come to find, were much preferable to furniture.) 

"And let's say the issue sells ... 10,000 copies," Edith posited. "If it does, then I really think you should do the book." And it _would_ sell that many -- _easily_. On its _worst_ runs, the magazine still sold at _least_ 30,000. "And tell you what," Edith added, sweetening the pot, "Bertie and I will go first. I mean, if the home of a marchioness can appear in a magazine, surely a Lord's can without it being beneath his dignity?" 

Their father snorted. "I can't wait to hear how your mother-in-law feels about that!" 

"I'm sorry, whose house are we talking about?" Edith asked wryly. 

Really, Mary reckoned, Edith's mother-in-law could feel however she liked; now that Edith was the marchioness, there was nothing the woman could do about what Edith did in their home, aside from complain behind closed doors. Especially as Bertie, between remembering how lonely his dear uncle had been, being grateful to Thomas for saving his wife, and knowing Jefferson to be a valuable asset to _The Sketch_ , as well as seeing how the book might be good for Downton (and thus the village), was all for helping the scheme to give Jefferson a reason to be at Downton (and thus around Thomas) for a while .... 

"I don't know that I have the time to play tour guide for just one person, with my work at the hospital," Mama warned. 

"Well, I can come over to help," Edith suggested. "I was librarian, after all -- I learned a thing or two. Oh! And Barrow could help us!" 

Mama cocked her head quizzically. "Barrow?"

"Yes, you should see him when he's with the children," Mary remarked. "They'll ask him about this work of art or that, and he always knows the answer. There've even been times when _I_ didn't know, but he _did_." 

"Really, Barrow?" Mama turned to the butler, looking surprised and bemused. 

Barrow looked a little alarmed. "Er, well, Your Ladyship, the staff was given permission to read the house histories, and when I first started working here, I thought it would be good to know a thing or two about where I was working." Mary hid a smile; she had a sense that the younger Barrow might actually have been casing the joint, in case he got the boot. "And they were so interesting, I eventually read them all." He seemed apologetic, like he'd been caught reading a diary (which, she supposed, he kind of was). "And then when we went up into the attic that day when we found the clock, I thought it would be good to re-read them, in case there might be other lost things that you might like to bring back into circulation." 

"Indeed -- I'd like very much for you to make a list of such things for me," Mama mused. "If we're going to do this book, we'll want any and everything of historical significance to be front and center!" 

"Of course, Your Ladyship." His face was deadpan, but Mary could see a light burning in Barrow's eyes. She'd never have guessed before, but with the insight he'd just given, she now had a sense that the man loved history -- and Downton. Maybe that was part of why he hadn't wanted to leave? It occurred to her now that, considering the effort servants put into caring for the place, servants could, like the family, feel possessive of the house, after a fashion -- especially when, like Barrow, they lived there! In that light, maybe it wasn't just the prospect of spending time with Jefferson that made Barrow want to make the souvenir book! Whether he had other reasons or not, Mary suddenly realised that she, too, was proud of Downton and wanted to show it off -- and so she wasn't being so altruistic as she'd thought regarding the project. 

Ah, well. Whatever of her personal reasons, it would help other people, all the same. 

~* * *~ 

"Good afternoon! You've reached Downton Abbey! This is Mr Barrow, the butler, speaking. How may I be of service?" Thomas asked into the phone. 

"Gracious, Thomas, what a mouthful!" came a familiar voice. 

"Jeffer--er, Mr Buchanan!" 

"Oh, right! How rude of me not to say who was calling -- yes, it's me! Branson said I should call when I reached the station." 

"Wonderful -- I'll let him know right away! I -- _we_ look forward to seeing you!" 

"As I look forward to seeing you! The sooner we get off the phone, the sooner that will happen!" And with that, there was a click. 

"Buchanan is coming?" 

Startled, Thomas found Jimmy in the doorway of his office. "Crickey, Jimmy!" Thomas laughed. 

"Sorry, I came in with Talbot," Jimmy chuckled as he stepped into the office, package in hand, closing the door behind him. "Is Buchanan coming for the Crawleys or for _you?_ " he added with a wicked grin. 

"Little bit of both and neither," Thomas blushed. "I invited him to the party for Baxter, and then he's having dinner with the Crawleys to talk about making a book about Downton." 

"Oh! That's right, Talbot mentioned that! So His Lordship agreed?" 

"Reluctantly, but yes. The Crawley women are a force to be reckoned with." 

"That they are, Lord help us .... So, uh ... I take it you and Buchanan .... hit it off?" Jimmy asked, flipping the package nonchalantly as he did. 

"You could say that," Thomas admitted, ducking his head. Then he had a thought. "Though, er ... you needn't worry about us acting ... _inappropriately_ around you, by the by. He says he respects that I wouldn't want to do anything that would get me sacked, so uh ... well, we're not going to risk getting caught in public by His Lordship, or one of the staff, or something." 

Jimmy nearly dropped the box, looking stricken. "Oh, Thomas ... I meant it when I said that I want you to be happy. I mean, it might take some getting used to on my part, I confess, but that doesn't mean you should hide your happiness from me! I don't ... I don't think that way about your preferences anymore. It's like ... you like grape juice and I don't. So long as you don't try to make me drink it, more power to you; have all you like in front of me!" 

Thomas felt a stab of guilt of his own. "I'm sorry, though ... for the time I _did_ try to make you ... _drink_." 

"I know you are," Jimmy replied softly. "And I know you wouldn't have tried if O'Brien hadn't lied to you about what I like. You've more than proven yourself a good friend since -- I really missed you while I was away. I'm almost sorry I'm not interested in ... _grape juice_ \-- if I was, I'm sure I'd share a glass with you. As it is, I'm glad it seems you've found someone who _will_. Well, just so long as _we_ still spend time together too, even if it's sharing other things?" 

"That we will," Thomas promised, deeply grateful for all Jimmy had said. He still loved Jimmy, and likely always would, but found that that love was evolving into the brotherly variety now. 

"Good. And with that, I'll help you set up for the party, shall I?" Jimmy suggested. 

"That'd be wonderful, thank you! Oh, actually, I need to give nanny a break first -- would you go let Branson know that Jefferson's at the station? I believe he's in the garage." 

"Right-o!" Jimmy promised, reaching for the door. 

~* * *~ 

Beryl hurried back a few feet in the hall, so Barrow and Jimmy wouldn't realise she'd been eavesdropping. It wasn't like she'd meant to -- it was just that she was about to knock, when she'd heard muffled voices through the door. She'd only put her ear to it to determine if she should interrupt or come back later -- and that's when she'd heard Jimmy say something about Barrow and that Buchanan fellow "hitting it off". She felt it her duty to gather evidence -- but the purpose of that evidence-gathering was no longer clear to her. Once upon a time, she thought it was her godly duty to report such sin when she encountered it. But now she wondered -- was it really a matter of sin that had bothered her, or had she just been looking for a way to punish Barrow for how the man had treated William and Daisy in his youth ...? 

"Oh, Mrs Patmore, hello!" Barrow greeted her as he stepped through the door after Jimmy. As always, she was struck by the difference in him now. Even his appearance seemed different -- brighter, warmer, more energetic. "How goes the cake?" 

"I was just coming to tell you it was finished," she informed him. 

"Brilliant! Let's have a quick look, shall we, Jimmy?" 

And look they did, Barrow thanking her for making a confection as fine as any served upstairs, and even (playfully) smacking Jimmy's hand away when the lad tried to stick his finger in the icing. Then they left, and Beryl went off to prepare the luncheon, reflecting, as she worked, on what she'd overheard. 

She knew already that Jimmy had not only forgiven Barrow's transgression, but had come to be thick as thieves with the fellow, even before Jimmy had left Downton. But Jimmy was not so great a person, so was that the devil at work, trying to seduce Beryl into turning a blind eye to Barrow's sins? For that matter, couldn't Barrow's own recent kindness be a similar ruse? 

Except ... really, Beryl had been more concerned about Andy's _safety_ than the sin, if she was honest with herself. And it _had_ turned out that Barrow had only been helping the lad! But back when Andy had first revealed that fact, Beryl had doubted that Barrow had really only helping -- she'd assumed Barrow had been just using the tutoring as an excuse to get close to Andy. Now, though, she was more willing, in hindsight, to give him the benefit of the doubt. She had learned that he _could_ be kind and selfless. And, well, that he had gotten so lonely, life had stopped being worth living. And this was a man who had struggled hard to _live_ during the Great War, even permanently maiming himself (not that she blamed him there)! For such a man to try to take his own life, he must have truly felt alone and rejected .... 

She had long thought Barrow a dark horse, and so had assumed that his shade was a _reflection_ of that ... but the more time she'd spent with him of late, she was starting to think ... maybe his dark nature had been a result of how he'd been treated _because_ of his shade? He was much a changed man -- a result, she now suspected, of the second chance he'd been given at life. So shouldn't she, too, give him a second chance? And to do so, she thought it prudent to get to know him better -- especially through eyes other than her own. She needed lenses that weren't coloured by the things she'd witnessed over their long association, or by her own admittedly narrow perspective. The more she thought on things, the more she suspected that she had gone _looking_ for sin, as evidence to herself that, after how he'd treated those dearest to her, Daisy and William, he was indeed contemptible. She'd cleaved to anything that reinforced her vision of him as a villain, justifying her own dark feelings towards him. It hadn't been hard to do, either -- but it also hadn't helped him become a better man, which would have been better for all of them! 

"Begging your pardon, Mrs Patmore, but have you seen Mr Barrow?" 

Beryl nearly dropped the dish she was drying! She was about to scold whomever had startled her, thinking him that hall boy Bradley, but found Mr Buchanan instead. 

"I'm so sorry -- I didn't mean to startle you!" 

She chuckled. "It's all right." She then glanced at the clock -- it had been about fifteen minutes since Barrow had left the kitchen. "As for Mr Barrow, he usually gives Nanny a break this time of day, but I think he might be down any minute to decorate the servant's hall." 

"Oh! Hey, now, how about I do the dishes for you until he comes down again?" And without waiting, he approached the pile. 

"The family would have my head on a platter if I had a guest help with my work!" Beryl protested. 

"Well, I'm not a guest -- I'm here to discuss the book I'll be working on for them, so that makes me an employee, same as you!" he countered cheerfully. "And if that logic doesn't work on them, I'll point out that I'm bigger and stronger, and so you couldn't get the dishes back from me!" he added with a cheeky grin. 

Biting back a grin, Beryl could see what Barrow saw in the charming man. 

Before long, Buchanan had the dish pile pretty tamed, with just a bowl and a pot and a spoon left, when they heard Thomas and Jimmy's voices carry to them from the servants' hall. 

"All, right, off with ya," Beryl ordered. "I can handle what little's left." 

Buchanan kissed her cheek, making her squawk indignantly, and rushed out the door, a step ahead of the chastising sting of her towel. 

Beryl, to her own great surprise, felt an affectionate pang when she heard Barrow's joyful squeal of Buchanan's Christian name. How could anything that happy be wrong? The boisterous three young men were like pleasant background music as they worked (or more like goofed off) while she was cooking.

Barrow poked his head through the kitchen door after a short while. "Sorry to bother you, Mrs Patmore, but we were wondering -- should we set the table and place the hats and noisemakers out at each place, do you think, or have the dishware and the hats and the food all down at one end, and have everyone dish up, and chose their hat and such, before sitting down?" 

"Hmm. Maybe I best have a look," she decided, and stepped into the hall. 

Crepe paper lined the walls, the (unlit) fireplace, the chairs, and even the tables, which bore a pink-striped tablecloth and was dotted with three small vases of fresh-cut roses. A banner reading "Happy Birthday" hung over the window. A box of hats and noise-makers sat on one chair, and a present on another. 

"My goodness! You've really gone all-out!" Beryl goggled. 

"Is it too much?" Barrow worried, wincing and ringing his hands. "I mean, I feel like we really should do this for _everyone_ on their birthdays, not just Baxter, but she ... well, she really was there for me, a-and I want to thank her ...." 

Beryl knew what he meant, and much approved of Barrow's gratitude and effort. Baxter was the sort to remember everyone's special days. Case in point, Baxter had embroidered a pair of potholders for Beryl's birthday, and was often helpful and considerate in general. So Beryl, who didn't usually give gifts to anyone but a very select few, made a batch of cookies of a kind that she knew Baxter enjoyed. She only hoped others similarly remembered her, as Beryl wasn't sure she'd ever met a kinder woman than Baxter (not even Anna), and such a person ought to be celebrated. 

Beryl laid a hand on his arm. "I think it's _wonderful_ \-- she's going to feel very special. As for what to do with the table, are you expecting people will come and go, or is everyone to eat at the same time?" 

"Same time," Barrow confirmed, looking more at-ease. 

"Then I would set the table, with the food in the middle and a hat and such at each place -- people can always trade if they don't want what's in front of them. And I would put the gifts at the end of the table." 

"Oh, right! A place for the gifts!" Barrow smacked himself on the forehead. "That's an excellent idea -- thank you, Mrs Patmore!" 

"You're welcome," she replied, marvelling a little that she was saying such words -- and meaning them -- to Barrow. But then, that was another thing to be thankful to Baxter for, she reckoned: that Barrow had finally become someone one could feel welcoming to! 

"The family gave me a few packages for her -- I'd best run up and get them!" Barrow revealed with a grin, dashing off. 

Buchanan was peering at the vases, and picked one up. "Oh, I bet Miss Sybbie made this one!" he smiled. 

"What's that now?" Jimmy asked, picking up the once closest to him. "Oh, I see -- this one must be from Master George!" 

Curiosity piqued, Beryl picked up the one closest to her. On it was a childish painting of a girl with an orange flower. "Marigold," she confirmed. "The children must have picked the flowers from Downton's own gardens." She only hoped they'd had permission from the gardener .... 

"Well, I didn't get Baxter anything, but now I'm feeling like I _should_ have," Jimmy revealed. "Do you think I might nick a bouquet too?" 

"I think the gardener's out there now and might bury you under the rose bushes if you tried," Buchanan chuckled. 

"There's still a bit of time -- you could bake cookies or something," Beryl suggested, feeling charitable. Besides which, she was sure Barrow wouldn't mind lending Jimmy a few staples to do it. 

Jimmy wrinkled his nose at the notion, and happened to look down at the piano. Then, "Wait! I could perform a song for her! ... Er, do you happen to know a song she likes?" 

Beryl realised then that, as much as she liked Baxter, she didn't know the woman all that well. "Maybe it's best to just say she can _request_ a song," Beryl suggested. 

"Right, good point!" Jimmy nodded. "Hopefully I'll know whatever she requests!" 

"And maybe you could give her a promise of a car ride into Roxton," Buchanan suggested. 

"Ooh, that's good too! I'm always going there!" Jimmy agreed. "So what have _you_ gotten her, Buchanan?" 

"A scrapbook," Buchanan revealed, lifting a package from the chair by the fire and placing it on the table. "And I put a picture in it from our dinner the other night. I reckon I'll take a new picture each time I come, and give it to her when next I see her." 

"Oh, that's a lovely idea!" Beryl smiled. 

"I'd be happy to do the same for you, if you like" Buchanan suggested, lifting the camera that hung around his neck. 

"Oh, no, not for me -- I just like the idea of pictures of us all; Baxter would make a good keeper of the record of life at Downton." Then she had a thought. "But I'd be grateful if you could get a picture of Daisy and Andy this time, yeah? I don't reckon they'll be comin' round so much anymore." Daisy had gotten a substitute teaching position, and she had her life at the farm, and Beryl expected Andy, who spent more time at the farm now than not, would propose before the year was out. It would be nice to have a photo of them around, when it got lonely -- although Beryl herself was spending more and more time at her bed and breakfast .... 

"I'd be happy to! Any time you want a photo when I'm here, just say the word," Buchanan promised. 

"Well, does that go for anyone?" Barrow asked as he came back into the room. 

"Most assuredly," Buchanan grinned. 

"Careful, I may put you to work," Barrow warned wryly as he arranged the packages on the table. 

"You better!" Buchanan practically purred. 

Beryl felt her cheeks warm. "Well, if you'll excuse me, I've buns in the oven." 

"Mrs Patmore! Who's--" 

"Not another word, Mr Kent," Barrow warned, sounding exasperated. Patmore turned and found the butler with his hand securely over Jimmy's mouth, Jimmy looking chagrined even with half his face covered. 

"My thanks, My Barrow," Beryl said, casting Jimmy a dark look before heading back into her domain. 

~* * *~ 

"I swear, it's like you have a deathwish," Thomas remarked, shaking his head and removing his hand. 

"I do tend to run at the mouth, don't I? Sorry, Thomas." 

Thomas rolled his eyes and sighed. "Ah, I can never stay mad at you, can I?" He rubbed his knuckles over Jimmy's head affectionately. 

"Not the hair, not the hair!" Jimmy whinged, slipping away with a laugh. 

"Sounds like you all are having fun!" came a voice from the entryway. 

"Ah, Mr Molesley, that we are -- come in, come in and join us!" Thomas beckoned welcomingly. He might not really love the man -- thought him a bit of a dunderhead, truth be told -- but aside from the guest of honor, Thomas considered Molesley the most important person at the party, because he was the most important person to _Phyllis_. If nothing else, Molesley made Phyllis happy, so if Molesley was good enough to Phyllis, Thomas reckoned he needed to try his best to see Molesley the same way. 

"Oh, it all looks very nice indeed, Mr Barrow, good show!" Molesley remarked as he glanced around the room. 

"Thank ye kindly, Mr Molesley! I had help, though. You know Jimmy, of course. And this is my friend, Jefferson Buchanan," he introduced, wondering if the man would suspect anything -- and whether it would be a problem if he did. 

"How do you do," Molesley said, perfectly friendly but seeming a little surprised as he shook Jefferson's hand. Well, Thomas could understand how the idea of him having a friend of any _nature_ could be a bit of a shock. "Are you a photographer?" he asked, pointing to the camera around Jefferson's neck. "Oh, yes! I'm working on a folio of Downton, in fact -- Mr Barrow has been helping me with it, at Lady Grantham's request." 

"How fascinating -- I should love to see it when it's through!" Molesley replied with enthusiasm. 

"Mr Molesley is a history and literature teacher," Thomas revealed, then turned to Molesley. "We've been looking at the family histories to see if there's any pieces of note that might be in the attic." 

"I'd be happy to help, if you like," Molesley offered. "It's been a while since I looked at the family histories myself -- I wouldn't mind taking another look!" 

"That's very kind of you, Mr Molesley, and much appreciated!" Thomas replied sincerely. I'll see to it you have the first volume or two before you leave today, shall I?" 

"That'd be marvellous!" Molesley agreed. "In the meantime, is there anything I can do to help here?" 

Thomas looked around. "I think we've got it all. The guests should start arriving soon, and then Anna will bring Baxter a short while later. Maybe a quick round of cards while we wait?" 

They'd just finished a hand before Mr Bates arrived and joined them. After a second hand, a few of the maids, hall boys, gardeners, and the Crawley's mechanic came in, all of them done for the day and changed into their Sunday best. Next came a few of Baxter's friends from around town, then a couple of farmers and their wives, then Mr Clarkson, then the Carsons (and was Thomas proud when the Carsons both praised his efforts!). Thomas was beyond relieved that there were so many guests, having been worried that people wouldn't see a point in attending a birthday party for a servant -- such "parties" usually consisted simply of a cake with the staff's lunch. But Baxter was well-loved, so he realised it shouldn't have surprised him. In fact, if many more came, there wouldn't be enough seats! 

And then he heard Baxter and Anna, and readied himself to draw out the chair at the head of the table -- normally his, but today hers. 

He gripped the chair tight when she came in, fighting off a swoon. 

Baxter and Anna weren't alone. 

"Elizabeth," he breathed, laying eyes on his sister for the first time since his father had thrown him out. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long delay -- life got away from me over the summer! Alas, I don't have the next chapter even started yet, so who knows how long it will be before the next chapter -- hopefully before the end of the year, LOL! As it is, I kind of let the chapter take me for a ride. That chapter ending was a complete surprise; I wasn't even sure his sister would make an appearance in this story at all, but as I got to the point where Baxter was to arrive, it just seemed right. I know sort of where the story is going to be making a stop, but the route there (and after) is a bit unplanned .... I can say this is becoming much longer than I expected, LOL!


End file.
